Polyjuiced!
by pineapple12
Summary: When Draco Malfoy discovers that Potter and his ilk have been masquerading as his friends via the Polyjuice Potion, he decides that it's time for Potter to taste his own medicine—er, potion. A reckless plan is hatched and Draco finds himself transformed into the fairer sex. This is an AU starting from Chamber of Secrets featuring a fem!Draco. AN: Taking a break for a bit!
1. Harsh Beginnings

It wasn't Potter's hair. Nor Weasley's, nor Granger's. Draco stared at his reflection in the dirty mirror. His pale face was flushed and a few strands of his combed hair had come undone. But there was no mistaking it—Draco had remained Draco. The Polyjuice Potion simmered away on the bathroom floor, _Moste Potente Potions_ lay abandoned next to the sink, and Draco had seen, actually seen, with his own eyes even: Potter and Weasley turning into his friends while Granger had managed to transform herself into a human-cat hybrid. And yet, the potion seemed to have no effect on him.

"Stupid potion. I should've known it was rubbish."

It seemed rather absurd to him then and he laughed. What exactly had his plan been? Drink the potion and then ruin the trio's image? Disgusting as it was, Potter's reputation had already taken a dive off the deep end—the idiots believed him to be Slytherin's heir. Weasley… well, everyone and anyone important already knew of them and as for Granger; Draco had a wistful thought of Hogwarts holding a candlelight vigil for her and any other Mudbloods caught in the Heir's grasp. There was no reason, he realised, to have even thought of drinking the Polyjuice to begin with. And besides, Granger had been the one to cook up the potion in the first place and look at what'd happened; Draco had no wish of being stuck with a stranger's face.. or worse. Still, even in his relief he felt irritated at the fact the potion hadn't worked on him. It had worked on Weasley, hadn't it? Blood-traitor though he was, his blood still ran pure. He had marked off the potion backfiring on Granger on her dirty blood and yet, it still didn't make any sense. The fires under the cauldron died and Draco took it as a sign that it was time to leave. The potion he could mull over in the common-room tomorrow.

"It wouldn't do to be caught in the girl's bathroom. I wonder what everyone else would make of it: Potter, Weasley, and Granger sneaking off to the girl's in the middle of the night? Shame that Potter didn't learn any proper manners; I suppose it's Weasley rubbing off on him. With a brood that large, you just can't spend the time—ugh!"

His eyes felt as if a red-hot poker was being shoved through them; his throat seared and cut his scream into a whimper. It was like the time father had let him try a sip of whisky, only he had swallowed the shattered glass as well. A small prickling of needles pierced his skin from head to toe and Draco could only gasp and pray that they passed swiftly. He fell to his knees, then to his hands. The floor was covered in acid and Draco only managed by swapping whatever body-part made contact intermittently. The pain began to ebb away and he found himself sobbing on the bathroom floor. There was no thought in him beyond, "please".

A small pin-prick of pain let him know that it wasn't quite over. It started in his crotch and drilled upwards inside him. It was like the first time he'd came but without the pleasure. It was the worst of his hunger pangs mixed in with the time he'd fallen off his broom. His stomach was eating him from the inside out; dull throbbing punches were accented with sharp kicks just above his place-down-there. It seemed happy enough to drill and drill inside him until finally even screaming past his raw throat became an option.  
"Please! Stop this!"

* * *

Draco awoke to a sharp voice. He struggled to his knees, wincing to the pain that would not come. Everything seemed dangerous to him, even opening his eyes. He didn't hurt anymore but his body remembered the fire, remembered the last time he'd been burnt. He'd kicked the cauldron over in his trashing and his robes were soaked. It smelled something awful and in the context of the bathroom, being covered in the brown liquid made him gag.

"W-who's there? Prof-professor?" His voice was hoarse. It sounded like he'd aged ten years.

"Good idea! They'd be interested to know about a boy in the girl's bathroom. Oooh, the trouble you'd get in."

Moaning Myrtle had returned. She'd escorted Potter and his friends to the infirmary… which meant… Potter would be returning. That was enough for Draco to will his legs forward. He left the bathroom at a brisk, if stilted, jog. Myrtle glided alongside him.

"You're the Malfoy boy. I know because they're always going on about you. Did you know that they sneaked inside the Slytherin common room? I do. They're always going on about that too—in my cubicle, that is. And so rude! They're always inside and no matter what I do, they won't leave. And that cauldron smoke gets my head all foggy; I really ought to tell a professor, only that they won't listen to me, oh no, who would listen to poor Moaning Myrtle?"

It barely registered in his head. Something had gone terribly wrong, this he knew. The potion had worked after all. He hoped that he didn't look like a cat—or worse, Granger. There was no time to return to the bathroom and check for himself… if only Potter had stayed at the infirmary for a little longer! So much for the friendship of Mudbloods and traitors. What good was it if it didn't even buy him a few minutes?

"I'll tell father," he began. His head was splitting open from the ghost girl's whining. "I'll tell father that at this school, if you can even call it that, there are ghosts that do absolutely nothing but bother students all day long. He's a governor, you know. You'll be kicked off the grounds. So there—leave me alone."

"Oh, don't stop there. I'd love to be out of this stupid castle. There's nothing to do all day and people think that it's funny to flush me out into the lake. The Ministry's the one who stuck me in Hogwarts in the first place, you see. I was haunting that awful, awful girl Olive Hornby, you see, and—"

Draco had never been so happy to see his common-room. He ran the last few feet towards the doors, spluttered out the password, and retired. Crabbe and Goyle sat by the fire, their backs illuminated by the lake's ghostly rays while their faces glowed bright with the hearth-fire. The smell of roasted marshmallows cut through the air and for a moment, Draco almost smiled. Then the memories of Potter and his lackey came rushing back in, putting a scowl back on his face.

"Crabbe! Goyle! Where were you?"

They shifted around with unease. Pieces of dried marshmallow encrusted their lips.

"We was attacked, weren't we, Goyle?"

"Yeah. Woke up in a closet."

"Well, that's all fine then, isn't it?" Draco turned and spat. "How can I call you two my friends if you aren't even there for me when I need it? And how did Potter and, and Weasley manage to knock you two out? And drag you into a closet?"

"It was Potter then! I told you it was Potter!"

"That mudblood probably taught 'em the spells too, didn't she?"

Sometimes it was infuriating to be surrounded with idiots. The dumb brutes weren't even good muscle, seeing as they'd been beaten by Potter. At times like these, Draco wished he had someone who he could really talk to… share ideas and swap theories with. His father had encouraged him to carry himself in a dignified manner and yet had provided him with a string of incompetent lackeys. Even with his sore throat, he couldn't help himself from shouting. But who could he turn to? Nott? He'd been a childhood friend but upon coming to Hogwarts, well, he'd become hard to reach. Draco suspected that he was homesick. Parkinson—a simpering, foolish girl who'd undoubtedly become a cheap woman. Nothing like his mother. The Quidditch team... now there was an idea. Only problem being Flint, who'd near blown out his eardrums after the last match. So what if they'd lost one match? It was his father's money that had carried them that far in the first place!

"What's that, Draco?"

He spun around in a panic. Of course, the Polyjuice Potion! He'd been in such a hurry to get back to his common-room that he hadn't had the chance to check himself first.

"What's what, Crabbe?" He tried to put in as much a sneer as he could. It came out as a snivelling whisper.

"Got mud on your robes."

"Yeah, there's mud everywhere."

"And… and what about my face?"

"Huh?"

"Never you mind. I'm off. In the future, I expect you not to lose to Potter so easily. What are you here for in the first place?"

He stalked off to the boy's rooms then paused. A terrible prickling of fear began to itch in his mind. Supposing that Potter and Weasley, upon seeing that they'd been discovered, had made their way back into the common-room? It seemed silly to think that they'd made their way back faster than he had—a Slytherin beat to their own common-room? —and yet horrifyingly possible. After all, he had been unconscious for a time unknown to himself.

"Crabbe! Goyle! Where do I live?"

"Huh?"

"Our fathers are friends. Surely even you must remember coming over? Where. Do. I. Live?"

"Er… Wiltshire… I think."

"Yeah, it's gotta be… Wiltshire."

"And what did we do last summer?"

"Er… well we practiced a bit of Quidditch, didn't we?"

"Yeah, cos second years can be on the Quidditch team, can't they?"

"Draco? Where you going?"

His suspicions put to rest, Draco left his friends to their marshmallows and went to bed.

* * *

Sleep did not come to Draco Malfoy. His legs had burned hours ago; now they remained just numb. The candle burned to its last and Draco stared at his reflection in the murky green light of the lake. If there was a Slytherin who had to use the bathroom, they'd have dirtied themselves without any hope of opening the door. Draco squat on the sink; his legs were spread wide open. Even in the dark, Draco knew. He'd become a girl. Or at the very least, become like a girl in the most physical and vulnerable of ways. When he removed his robes to clean himself, he knew. When he held the candle-light down to his crotch, he knew. And yet, still he stayed frozen; transfixed to his reflection until the evening had crept into midnight into the witching hours. The Polyjuice Potion wasn't supposed to last this long, was it? He knew that it changed forms but for how long? Forever? Pure-blood though he was, he'd never been an obsessive learner. It wasn't in his books… he hadn't come out and checked but somehow he knew deep in his gut. He felt an acidic regret for taking such pleasure in Granger's cat-like form… he'd even spat out an apology in the hopes that the potion would wear off.

As the hours crawled by, Draco noticed that his eyes were taking on a green hue. He wasn't sure how much of it was from the light—his body was cast in a sickly green—but as time went on, Draco become sure of it. Green eyes. He had an inkling of what his hair colour would turn into next but try as he might, Draco wasn't able to see his crown and anyway, his tips didn't seem all that ginger. Not yet, at the very least. He would not cry, that he decided from the very start. His father had brought him up with dignity and pride. He would not cry. He was still a Malfoy, was he not? His blood still ran pure through his veins, like the very freshest of virgin spring-waters. His lip quivered; Draco turned away from the mirror for the first time. His legs were deadwood and as he attempted to climb down from the sink, he smashed headfirst into the floor.

For a minute, he imagined himself to be back in the girl's bathroom. This time, he hadn't drunk from the cauldron to begin with. He had tripped and fallen over this cloak and soon enough, he would wake up as Draco Malfoy—only son of the Malfoy family. His thoughts wandered from there and arrived back to his current predicament. What, he mused, would happen if the change remained permanent? All his life he'd been doted over as a young, handsome boy of pure stock. Surely nothing would change if he was a girl, would it? Perhaps he'd be hidden away in his manor... home-schooled like the Weasleys. The thought of his friends finding out about his transformation, however, made the idea seem sweet. Or at least, bitter-sweet. Or maybe, he thought, he'd be sent off to Durmstrang under a false name. That would be all the better. Durmstrang was a proper institute. He'd heard at Durmstrang that Mudbloods weren't allowed... but they didn't have Hogsmeade, did they? And Draco had been looking forwards to his third year... A pounding on the door soon doused him from his dreams.

"Who's there? You alright in there?"

"Y-yes. Yes. I'm alright. Just had a fall."

"I see. Well, you be careful in there. Just because we live under the lake's no excuse. You ought to carry a candle when it's night out."

Draco struggled to his feet. A simple touch down there confirmed what he already knew. In the morning, he decided, everything would be fixed. Everything would be okay. Sleep would fix everything. He pulled on his pajamas, tossed the remains of the candle in the bin, and left his dirty robes on the floor for the house-elves to clean. Sleep, he told himself. Sleep would fix all things. He knew it.


	2. A Visit To The Hospital Wing

The day after Christmas was one of indolence for most people. An entire day of indulgence tended to create silent common-rooms, full of students sleeping off their stomachs. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, had been up at dawn. He wished he had a mirror. Though the room was quiet, early birds had the tendency to mill around the lounge. He touched his hair gingerly but there was no tactile difference; his presumably blonde hair was as short as ever. It reminded him that it was time for a wash—residue from his hair product left it sticky and full of gunk. The rest of his body seemed fine… his skin had remained pale, he still had five fingers on each hand, and he hadn't shrunk nor sprouted noticeably. It was a long minute before he even dared think about his business down there.

'What are you, scared? Scared of being a girl? Well, if that isn't the most preposterous thing you've ever thought in your life… even Pansy Parkinson's not afraid of being a girl.'

Draco took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and plunged his hand into his pajama pants. His heart dropped into his stomach and dissolved amidst his Christmas feast. The potion hadn't worn off. There was nothing for it, he decided. He'd swing by the hospital wing, get it checked out by Madame Pomfrey, and perhaps sneak a look at Granger. Her ridiculous face would cheer him up and if nothing else, give him some respite that he wasn't the only one in an episode of _Polyjuiced! Gone Wrong_. He pulled on his robes (they'd been freshly pressed and left on his bed) and cautiously slid the bed-curtains aside. Draco found himself looking face to face with Theodore Nott. His eyes said everything.

"And what d'you think you're looking at, Nott?"

"Draco?"

"Obviously."

"Your hair! And your eyes…" And with that, he let out a nervous chuckle. It was a pathetic sort of laugh, the kind that was subtly asking for permission to make fun in the first place.

"Think that's funny, do you, _Snott_?" Draco snatched his black hat, dusted it off, and placed it firmly over his ears.

"I can still see it. There's a little bit in the back, you see."

In a way, Draco was relieved. If the biggest change about him was the colour of his hair and eyes, then the potion hadn't really affected him in a drastic way. No one would suspect him of taking on the fairer gender's, well, gender if even Nott wasn't able to pick up on it. Draco pushed him aside as he set off for the hospital wing. What a fine way to spend his Christmas Holidays, he thought. And to think, if he hadn't chosen to spend his break here on Christmas, then none of this would have happened! Why had he chosen Hogwarts in the first place? He was here most of the time anyway; the dirty castle wasn't going anywhere. And besides, Father and Mother always chose the best of places for their vacations. Why, he could fondly remember the time he'd visited—

"So it's the hospital wing? You could probably fix that with a colouring charm, you know."

Draco whirled around to spy Nott following close behind him.

"I suppose this is all entertainment for you then?"

"S'not like there's anything to do here over break. Everyone else is sleeping anyway. Or gone home."

"Oh, but it's not like you have any friends, is it, _Snott_?" Draco picked up a hand-held mirror in the lounge. His worried expression swam into the glass. Asides from the hat shoved deep over his head, he still looked the same as ever. He frowned as he spotted a flash of ginger to his side but he found that moving the hat around only served to expose more of his unfortunately-coloured hair. "How did you manage to stay at Hogwarts anyway? I would've imagined your father—"

"You don't have to be like that." There was a pout in his voice. "Anyway, father lets me do what I want. Most of the time. I already went home first year, you know?"

"Did you? Sorry, I didn't notice." There was more venom in Draco's voice than he wanted but he couldn't help himself. Something about Nott always managed to draw it out. And besides, he thought, this wasn't the time to reminisce with childhood friends. He put the mirror down and set off for the door. He'd drunk a potential permanent potion and he wasn't about to delay his treatment for a nice chat with Nott. "You are a persistent one, aren't you?"

"Like I said," Nott shrugged. "Nothing else going on."

* * *

The walk to the hospital wing was pregnant with tension. Nott had attempted to start up a conversation or two but upon seeing Draco's steel face, fell silent. There was an unacknowledged yet mutually agreed upon message in the air: for two childhood friends, they had become quite distant. For Draco's part, he felt that he'd done all he could to include strange, lonely Nott into his group. Why, just last year, hadn't he invited Nott to come see Hagrid's dragon?

"You know," Nott piped up, "you used to call me Theo."

"Did I? You know, Nott, I've begun to have some second thoughts about you. If you wish to be called something else, why then, you should have told me from the start. Not in this sneaky, roundabout way."

"Oh shut up, Draco. Snob, you've always been a snob. You keep that up and I'll break your nose. Maybe your broom too."

"See, see! You're being violent again. I told you not to; it's why we stopped talking in the first place."

"Seem happy enough with Crabby and Goyle though, aren't you?"

"They aren't that way towards me, you see."

Despite it all, Draco found himself slipping back into old comforts. There was something about Nott that made him rather easy to talk to, even if they hadn't spoken properly in months. He supposed that it was an inherent quality that childhood friends brought to the table. At times like these, it was almost implausible that he'd stopped talking with him in the first place. They arrived at the hospital wing and Draco gave Nott a heavy stare.

"Well, I'm here. I suppose you've had your fun then?"

"Aren't you the one who told me to stop talking in sneaky, roundabout ways?"

"Oh very well. Go away. Patient confidentiality."

"Think I'll hang about, actually. Hangnail."

This was why he'd stopped talking to Nott. Draco had once been fooled by his weedy stature. He'd thought him to be easy to control, like Crabbe and Goyle. Not so—despite his rather solitary and quiet nature, Nott had a knack for getting underneath his skin.

"Oh very well!"

* * *

If there was anything good at this school, Draco thought bitterly, Madame Pomfrey could be counted amongst them. Not the character herself, of course, but rather her medical skills. She'd sent Nott to wait by the door while she ushered Draco into her private room. It was an extremely delicate case, he'd said, and could she be trusted to keep her silence? Of course, he trusted her but only his father was a governor on the school board and just what would happen to poor old Madame Pomfrey should she be found leaking her patients various ailments? This snide remark had earned him a sharp glare and smart retort but here he was: privacy at last.

"Alright, Mr. Malfoy," she bustled about. "Let's see what we have here, shall we? Your symptoms?"

At this he paused. What on earth would she think of him? No doubt she'd suspect him of partaking in some rather perverted activities. And although Draco had been—no, was—a boy, he suddenly felt very shy about revealing his secret. Just the hair colour then, he thought. He didn't need to start off big. He could lead up to it.

"Well," he pulled off his hat, "my hair's managed to change into this ghastly colour. And… my eyes are green."

She snorted. "Mr. Malfoy. Even the muggles are perfectly capable of dealing with this… problem. Not to worry. Just a short colouring charm and you'll be in top shape. Now, your hair colour dear?"

"I-it's a shade of blonde. Sometimes white, I suppose. And my eyes were—are—grey."

"I see. Well, we'll soon get this straight. What you really need," she pulled out her wand and shook it in a brusque manner, "is a change of attitude. Really, I've never seen the like."

A flash of light, a small crease in her forehead, and nothing had changed. She frowned before waving her wand once more. This time, Draco's hair faded slightly before rebounding in an ever more vibrant ginger.

"Just how did you get this way, Mr. Malfoy? Hex? Jinx? Curse?"

"I just woke up and, and—" He faltered when he made eye contact with her. His words stuck in his throat and before he knew it, he broke. He pulled down his robes in a clumsy motion—ignoring Madame Pomfrey's shocked protestations—pulled down his underclothes, and let a small tear roll down his cheek.

"I-just-drank-something-and-now-I've-been-turned-into-this-and-how-is-father-going-to-feel-and-and-I-don't-know-if-it's-for-forever-and-and-"

* * *

It took a kettle of hot chocolate and perhaps two giant-sized handfuls of tissues before Draco calmed down enough to tell Madame Pomfrey what had really happened. Of course, he took a fair few liberties in recalling the tale and the finer details, such as how he'd chanced upon the potion in the girl's bathroom, were erased.

"So… someone left a cup of Polyjuice Potion lying in the common-room. And you, possessing an extraordinary foolish amount of curiosity, drank it. Is this what you're telling me, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"And you have no idea whose hair was in the potion? If it was even human?"

"I'm telling you, Miss, it was just there! I thought that Crabbe had smuggled extra pumpkin juice from the table. It was orange-ish."

"I see." She put a hand over her forehead and sighed. "Dear oh dear. That makes two… and what with the supplies running low… You foolish child!"

"I don't see why you have to rub it in." Now that his secret had been revealed, his haughty attitude was beginning to creep back in. "It's not proper bedside manner, is it?"

"You have no idea. Now sit. Be still. I must consult Professor Snape."

With a sinking sensation in his stomach, Draco watched as she practically flew out the door. It sunk lower when Nott's face poked around the door once more.

"I didn't know Hogwarts had were-cats. Did you?"

"It's not a—oh, never you mind." Draco was in no mood to spill the beans on Granger. That he would do when everything was fixed and back to normal. Then he'd be in proper form to spread the news.

"So, what's up? Your hair's still ginger."

"Go away, Nott."

"I've got a hangnail, remember?"

"You—Just go away! Leave me alone. Theo. Please."

Theo opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded. When Draco looked up again, he was alone. It wasn't for long, for soon Madame Pomfrey had returned with a particularly angry looking Professor Snape in tow. Their robes billowed out behind them like the fins of some particularly regal goldfish. It was a vaguely comical sight and Draco would have laughed if not for the expression on Professor Snape's face. Dissatisfaction was etched deep in every crease; this was a sight reserved for Potter, not Draco.

* * *

"I would have expected this foolish behaviour from some of your classmates, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said. "But not from you. Clearly, I have misjudged your character. Do you even realize the consequences of what you've done? I shall need a few months to brew a counter-potion, months that I may not have."

Snape turned his head towards Madame Pomfrey. Even though Draco was the subject of his ire, it was clear to him that for this conversation, he was being left out.

"For now, I suggest a line towards St. Mungo's. They may have Restorative Draughts remaining in stock. They will do in a pinch—perhaps slow the process down. Oh, and," his lips curled in a way that Draco could only describe as amusement, "I shall have to inform Dumbledore immediately, along with Mr. Malfoy's parents."

At this, Draco shot up out of his chair. His hands gripped at Snape's robes and shameful though it was, he found himself kneeling—actually grovelling—at his feet.

"Please sir, I don't see any need to tell my father. Isn't this just something temporary?"

Snape's eyes glittered. "As I have already informed you, Mr. Malfoy, if I am not able to brew the potion in time, there may be unforeseen consequences. In addition, it is Hogwarts policy to inform our student's guardians when they are damaged or otherwise affected by… dangerous magic."

"B-but…" he struggled for words. "But Granger's been turned into a cat! Don't tell me she's going to be a cat forever too?"  
Draco did not care directly if the mudblood had to shave for the rest of her life; no, he was more worried about the fact that if she could not be cured—neither could he. For the first time in his life, he hoped that some good would come to the mudblood. A twinge of anger poked at his heart.

"How come you can help that mudblood but not me? You're supposed to know my father, professor."

Madame Pomfrey gasped; Professor Snape looked positively murderous.

"You are not permitted to use that word," he growled. "As for Granger, her health remains a concern to be shared between her and Madame Pomfrey. Now, I shall inform Dumbledore of your recent… transgressions, _Miss_ Malfoy."

"You don't understand, sir! She-she drank the Polyjuice too! Why is it—"

"That's enough from you, Malfoy!" Pomfrey had shoved a peppery-tasting drink down his throat. "Now, you're to remain at this hospital wing until you've calmed down. I don't know how you know about Miss Granger but she is not your concern—that enough is clear. I expect your parents to be along soon."

And with that, Madame Pomfrey had pushed him out the door and into the general room. There, a hospital robe appeared on the far side of the beds—far away from Granger—and a stray placard hovered above. On it read, "SIT HERE AND WAIT. QUIETLY." Theodore Nott was nowhere to be seen.

"Well?"

Draco scurried off to his bed and drew the curtains. When he pulled off his robes to change, he realized that his body had grown even more paler than usual. Goosebumps were spreading across his arms and his teeth chattered.

"It wouldn't hurt to stoke the fire some, would it?"

There was no answer. Draco pulled on his hospital robes; they were white and splotched with spots. It was like the night-gowns that grandmothers wore. Repulsive. He stifled a yawn as he sat down on the bed. The drink that Madame Pomfrey had given him was the culprit, he realized, as he began to doze off. Despite his best efforts to remain awake and ready for his parents, Draco soon fell asleep. He had no dreams.


	3. Home

Draco awoke to his hair being stroked. Even with his eyes shut, he knew her touch. _Mother_. His heart beat faster—his body anticipated the storm even before his mind. He lay still for a moment and pretended to be asleep. His mother's fingers gently brushed through his dirty hair, untwisting every tangle and knot in their way.

"It's about time we wake him, is it not?" His father's voice pierced through the silence. He was mad, furious even. However, there was an underlying choked quality in his tone that Draco had rarely heard before. He sounded urgent and at the same time, reluctant.

"Shush. Let him sleep. I don't wish to wake him before it's time; let him rest."

It was no use delaying any longer. It was like the time when he'd scraped his arm against a tree while playing Quidditch—the subsequent treatment his mother had given him had taught him to get things over with quickly. Besides, his heart was beating so fast that he was positive that his parents knew he was awake and were merely giving him the courtesy of announcing his revival personally. He raised a shaky hand to his mother's and gripped it before speaking.

"I'm sorry, mother."

He opened his eyes to find her smiling down at him. It was an empty grin, one he'd seen many times when she hosted nosy ministry busy-bodies at their manor.

"Draco. Good, you're awake. Now, we need to talk. Dumbledore's already filled us in on the finer details while I've made sure that your treatment is on the top of Severus' list. How do you feel? Should I call for water?"

That was his father. He was always straight with him, which was a trait that Draco admired. No beating around the bush—unless necessary. Some ministry officials still seemed to have a mark on them—with his father, no; he was clear and strict and provided some form of order when Draco's life seemed to have none.

"I'm fine, father. Did Professor Snape tell you everything?"

"Indeed. You should count yourself lucky that I know Severus, Draco. He's an odd fellow. Always was. He can't stand people mucking about in his affairs; he wished to have the student stealing from his wares to be expelled. Not that I blame him, of course. Discipline must be kept in some way but seeing how the thief is my son, well—"

"Lucius! We'll speak no more of this, can't you see the state of your son? Spare the lectures for later. Later!" Her last words came out in a strained hiss but Draco could still hear her by straining his ears. His father nodded hurriedly.

"It's just—I never would have expected you to be involved with these _people_ ," He whispered to Draco before catching Narcissa's eye. He cleared his throat before sitting up again. "It seems that your treatment might take some time. Apparently this type of… thing's more complicated to undo when it's human to human. With a cat, like that mudblood child, it's simply a manner of separating the animal from the man. In cases such as yours, well, it's simply much more complicated. Humans are so alike, you see. I'm told by Severus that it's a highly delicate process—we wouldn't want to vanish a leg by accident. No. It's the difference between a rooster's wattle and—"

He coughed and avoided Narcissa's killing glare. "Well, I suppose that's a talk for another time. Ah, but if this dump of a school could make it any harder! To think that this castle once housed Salazar Slytherin himself. That Poppy woman, she's not changed since I've been here. Severus's informed me that they've run dry of any more Restorative Draughts, save for the mudblood's share, and it's not the season for Mandrakes just yet. To think that she'd put that stupid girl's catty face over my son. I'll have to see to it that Hogwarts gets a proper matron soon… In my day, such utter disregard for the rules would have had that girl expelled. I must admit Draco, I would never have imagined you to get involved in this mess. I keep telling you, Narcissa, that Hogwarts simply isn't what it used to be. It's this perverse mudblood-loving culture that's invaded these walls—no doubt their insolence has rubbed off on Draco—this simply wouldn't have happened at Durmstrang!"

This talk had made no more sense to Draco than his history lessons. His mind was still fogged up from the sleeping potion and the little he gleaned from his father's words were almost sinister in nature. Was this change permanent? What on earth was father going on about with Slytherin? He could still attend school, could he not? Perhaps his mother sensed his anxiety (or seen it in his eyes) for she placed a hand on his father's wrist and when that didn't stop his ranting, she spoke in a hushed whisper that Draco could barely hear.

"What did I say? No lectures! Enough, Lucius. Not here. Do your duty as a father and console him, or can't you even do that? And besides," her voice grew ever lower, "what would Dumbledore think if he heard you use that word? We must keep our appearances."

"I am merely informing Draco of the consequences of his actions. It's better he hears it from his father than that deranged lunatic Dumbledore. But seeing how you seem all too eager for him to remain ignorant of this mess…" Lucius hissed back before regaling Draco with a wan smile.  
"One last thing and then I promise you rest. Severus has informed me that puberty may have unknown effects on your condition. There was this case, 1855, I believe—yes, dear, I'll speak only a minute more—of a child who drank a faulty Polyjuice potion and lived out her years as a man. She only reverted thrice in her life: once, on her twentieth birthday; the second time, an experimental cure from St. Mungo's—lasted a few weeks, I believe—and third, on her deathbed. Now don't be alarmed, Draco. You know your father; I have people working overtime at Mungo's and Severus is a dear acquaintance of mine. You needn't worry, not at all. Now sleep—we're taking you back home for the rest of the holidays."

As Draco took the sleeping draught his mother offered him, he couldn't help but think that his father had not been entirely truthful. There was a distinct edge of worry in his tone that even his silky-smooth voice couldn't hide… and some of his friends had already hit puberty. What had Professor Snape said? A few months to brew a potion? And this girl from the eighteenth century… had they found a cure then, for Snape to be brewing it? It had been an entirely surreal two days, Draco thought, and he wondered if it was all a very realistic dream. As he floated in and out of consciousness, he could hear his parents arguing about precautions and rules and ginger hair and Dumbledores. It was all very alien to him.

* * *

The first thing he noticed upon waking up was that he was in his very own bed. It was of a far better make than the ones at Hogwarts—Draco's parents had paid for the works: self-regulating comforters, evening-massage pillows, time-travelling nightlights (see the night sky as you've never seen before! Free from muggle copters, smoke, and more!), and even a pair of vintage lullaby sheets.

"Morning, Draco! It's time to wake up, wake up, wake up!" His alarm clock sang. His father had wanted a clock of a different make; one that sounded like a cannon at the crack of dawn. At times like these, Draco was glad for his mother's uncanny ability to override his father's decisions.

"A few more minutes," he grumbled. The clock immediately went silent but as Draco was just starting to fall back asleep, a resounding crack alerted him of his house-elf's presence.

"Dobby! Why you—"

"Begging your pardon, young master, but Dobby is sent to awaken you sir. Young master's mother has sent Dobby sir, for she did not wish for young master to miss his breakfast, no sir."

There was something about the little elf that brought out Draco's ire. It was exceedingly pathetic the way it grovelled and bowed and shook, especially in the pillow-case that it wore in some mockery of proper clothing. Not to mention the filth it dragged through the manor—sometimes, Draco felt that the elf was creating half of the mess it cleaned up, what with its slobbering about. And to think, house-elves actually liked to work! Why, Draco had heard of a half-blood witch who'd inherited a grand manor, along with a house-elf or two. And when she'd freed the disgusting things, instead of gratitude she'd found their dead bodies in a cupboard two months later. They bring it upon themselves, he thought. Was it any wonder he felt such disgust with Dobby and his kin? It was as natural a thing as killing spiders—it was wizard instinct to use these things.

"Sometimes I wonder why mother even keeps you around. I mean, just look at you! 'I is Dobby, sir, oh may I please lick your boots clean sir, oh yes the dirt tastes absolutely beautiful sir'—oh, get out! Go tell mother I'll be down as soon as I'm ready."

With another deep bow, Dobby snapped his fingers and disappeared. Draco scoffed. This was what he was talking about—those things, they'd take anything as long as it came from their superiors. He had no doubts that Dobby would even let him spit on it, perhaps even catch the spit with its open mouth.

"Oh, Dobby thanks you for this most excellent drink, sir!" He threw himself out of bed and stalked off to his bedroom. There were many excellent ways to starting off a day but being forced to look at a house-elf wasn't one.

When Draco entered his bathroom, he realized at once that he'd been holding on to some foolish hope that everything had been a dream. There was a familiar pit in his stomach as he looked at his reflection; his mirror did not help things as it let out a shocked gasp.

"Goodness! Why, but your hair! And-"

"Shut it or I'll have father send you back."

That was the problem with these vintage pieces. Aristocratic as they were, Draco found that too often they came with too much personality. For its part, the mirror promptly held its tongue—he could still sense it staring at him though.

For the first time since his unfortunate transformation, Draco could truly examine his image. His hair had taken on the garish, ratty colour of the Weasleys'. It was a bright carrot-y, somewhat muddy red. As for his eyes, well, if it weren't for the fact that they were on his face, Draco could swear that Potter was looking right at him. His face was otherwise the same, he decided. It did look somewhat softer than before but he managed to convince himself that it was the lighting and shadows that did the work.

"So I've got Weasley's hair, Potter's eyes and well… I suppose that part's Granger's…"

On a whim, he bared his teeth and was relieved to find that his perfectly straight smile had not changed. He wondered what else about him would change: would his hair grow into a bushy mess as it grew? (not that he had any intention of growing a mane). Sprout an ugly scar on his forehead? Perhaps, he thought with a smirk, he'd even get to know poverty like the Weasleys.

"Bend over a bit. I need to see something."

The mirror acquiesced to his request. Draco slipped out of his baby-selkie fur pajama robes—enchanted with a Good Night's Sleep! —and forced himself to look at his sex. Her sex, to be more accurate. He felt like a pervert and a scarlet red painted his cheeks.

"Well, it is my body. I'm not some peeping-tom."

"You tell 'em."

"Didn't I say to shut up? Honestly, I think I shall tell father that this mirror's faulty."

* * *

Breakfast was a feast beyond Hogwart's wildest dreams. His mother had prepared his favourite foods and the breakfast table heaved under the weight. Puddings of all kinds, meat-pies, sausages, faery fruit, brownie's brownies, dunner-dogs, and more… Although Draco did not mention it, he knew that his mother had cooked through the night. He felt a little ashamed… although he was very upset about the Polyjuice, it wasn't as if he needed to be cheered up with food of all things. He wasn't a baby anymore.

"Sit, sit!" Narcissa walked briskly out of the kitchen. Hovering in front of her was a suckling pig with an enchanted apple in its mouth.

"You know mother," Draco began to pile his plate with black sausage, "we do have servants for this sort of thing."

"Don't be silly, Draco. They wouldn't know how to treat you. Besides, that house-elf's been slacking on its job—why, just a few weeks ago it burned your father's roast, wouldn't you know it? I had to have it iron its fingers. Try the amabie caviar. Father's had it imported all the way from Japan."

It tasted a bit like blood. The bitter iron-y taste definitely wasn't to his liking.

"How do you feel?"

"It tasted kind of funny but I'm alright."

"Draco."

He looked up from his plate and saw his mother frowning.

"Oh… well, father said that it'd be alright, didn't he? I suppose I'll just have to wait until he brings back a cure."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Narcissa had not taken a bite from her plate. "I imagine it's something awful for you. It must feel strange, I'm sure."

"I'm alright. It just feels a little empty, I suppose." He filled his cup with _Pixie Drops: Lemon-y Twist_.

"Well, if you say so. Did you hear what your father said yesterday?"

"Only a little. I think he said something about St. Mungo's, didn't he?"

His mother sighed. A small crease of worry appeared on her forehead. Her hands began to massage her temples as she spoke.

"This is powerful magic, Draco. The Polyjuice potion is banned at Hogwarts for good reason, you understand? Why, it's not something that I'd expect even seventh years to learn. That Granger girl, whatever else she may be—I'm astounded that she was able to even produce a working formula."

"Working? Mother, look at me!"

"Dumbledore did inform us that you dumped a whole bunch of hairs in the cauldron, you know. Really, Draco, I don't know where you've picked up this reckless behaviour! My son, crawling around in the girl's bathroom picking up every stray hair he could find? It's no wonder you're in this mess—who knows if those hairs were even human! It's degenerate behaviour!"

"Well, I know that three of them were." Draco sulked into his mash. He hadn't thought that he'd be getting a lecture from his mother as well.

"Oh, don't fret. Don't let your appetite be ruined; eat up. Severus is hard at work, I'm sure. And your father is pulling every string at the ministry he can. But as I was saying, Draco, Dumbledore told me of things that we should be aware of. Now, I stopped your father from explaining it to you in detail—just think if someone overheard! —but now's the time you listened.

"We should count ourselves lucky that the girl has some sense in her—she must have been adopted by the _muggles_ , don't you think so?—otherwise we might not even be speaking to one another like so. Did you know that the Polyjuice potion is a rarity for even qualified witches and wizards to brew? Why, you might have just ended up with five hands. Don't grimace, dear, you'll get wrinkles early. Now, Severus has told me that an effective cure can be brewed in just a few months. He's waiting on a shipment of Mandrakes from St. Mungo's… the rest of the ingredients I'm told are being imported from Spain. No, don't start talking about the girl, listen. Severus has told me that animal compounds are removed much more easily than human ones—she needs only the Restorative Draught. Yes, Draco, I'm beyond words that the girl hasn't been punished but that's beyond the point.

"However, there's a catch. I'm told that if you hit puberty—yes Draco, puberty—while in this state… well, there's simply no cure. The body becomes too intertwined with the potion… there are some experimental treatments, of course, but Severus has warned me of the possibility of death. Well, I suppose they're experimental for a reason. And before you say anything, Draco, I would rather have a daughter than a dead son."

Her voice faltered and she took a sip of clear liquid from her goblin-forged goblet. Draco suspected that it wasn't water.

"So! After you finish your meal, you're to take this," she pulled out two bottles. "It's simply a restorative draught and a freezing potion. It won't cure you but I'm told that it'll lessen the chances of you hitting puberty. Severus has told me that the _muggles_ have some sort of medicine but your father and I decided against it. There's nothing they can do that we cannot and goodness knows what kind of side-effects muggle-potions may carry! And if you notice any signs that you're growing up, any at all… well, you be sure to tell your mother. You have a girl's body, after all—best not to bother your father. No, you'd better come to me. Oh, and we'll have to do something about that ghastly hair. I'm sure Grizelda's can colour it."

It was all a bit too much to take in at one time for Draco. He chewed through his plate slowly, contemplating what she'd said. What were the signs of puberty anyway? Hogwarts hadn't taught him anything along those lines yet… he knew that some boys in his dormitory had their voices change. Crabbe and Goyle both were growing small bristles on the sides of their mouths. It would be different for girls, that he knew. And he knew about things like periods, even if he didn't know exactly how they worked.

"Girls don't grow hair too, do they?"

"Oh, I'm afraid they do."

There was something of a smile on Narcissa's face.

* * *

The potions tasted exactly like they looked. Even though he'd clamped his nose shut, he could still taste them running down his throat—they tasted how boiled eggs smelled, perhaps with a dash of garlic paste. His mother informed him that no, that was not the end of it and that his father was working hard on obtaining more doses from St. Mungo's. Apparently, there was a bit of a shortage in Britain.

He spent rest of his holidays flying around the estate, looking at his reflection, and visiting Griselda's in a vain attempt to dye his hair. For what it was worth, the withered old hairdresser had managed to turn his locks into a sickly pink-ish colour. "I'm at a loss for words, Narcissa," she'd grunted. " _Fleurmonte's Bleach For All_ usually does the trick. Why, it's even worked on my husband and he's as bald as they come! Gilderoy Lockhart's a Hogwarts professor now, isn't he? I'd have him take a look. There's powerful magic in this hair and if you've read his books…"

By the end of break, Draco's hair had gone back to its ginger roots and he'd flown enough laps around his manor that he was sure to beat Potter at the next match. He had a Nimbus 2001—the technical advantage was there. He'd only been distracted that time; this time, he'd show both Potter and Flint. His parents had insisted on escorting him to Hogwarts personally despite his protestations. He'd grown slightly used to his appearance and anyways, no one was going to bully him or anything like that. He had Crabbe and Goyle with him, didn't he? Not to mention half of the Slytherin girls and almost all the boys. He was not to tell anyone of his gender complications—after all, Severus was working on it and what good would it do to tell people of temporary problems? —and the official story behind his appearance was to be the results of a nasty jinx.

"Remember to take your potions, Draco. I've packed some in your luggage but when you run out, you're to go to Severus, do you understand?"

"If anyone makes fun of you, you just let your father know."

Despite his feigned bravery, Draco couldn't help but gulp when Hogwarts came into view. He hugged his parents fiercely before the other students arrived then waved them off. He felt very alone. It was a big secret to be keeping all to himself. But as his mother said, this too would come to pass. He was sure of it.


	4. The Slytherin Common Room

**Note:** Well I'm very obviously not British, haha. Sorry! You'll just have to bear with meee. I hope it's not too painful.

* * *

For the first few weeks of school, Draco could practically feel the rumours flying around him. They ranged from cursed soap to a disgruntled ministry worker angry with his father to the most ridiculous of all: some actually believed that Draco had dyed his own hair out of some newfound, misplaced love of fashion. For his part, he remained silent to all but his friends. The official story, he'd said, was nothing like that. He'd merely been caught up in a fight in Knockturn Alley and a vagrant had jinxed him with a particularly sticky colour changing spell.

"You were in _Knockturn Alley_ by yourself?" If Pansy Parkinson had been deterred by his new appearance, this tale of stunning bravado had won her affections once more.

"Oh please, it's not like Draco goes anywhere without his father." That was Blaise Zabini. Draco didn't know where he got his arrogance from; for all he knew, Zabini might've not even been pure-blood. He certainly wasn't part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. "Anyways, he looks like a weasel now."

Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles. Tracey Davis snorted.

"No he doesn't," said Pansy. "He has green eyes; when's the last time you saw a weasel with green eyes, huh?" Unbeknownst to her, her heated defense had made things worse. Zabini smirked; Crabbe and Goyle half stood up from their seats.

"Sit down," said Draco. Although he couldn't have asked for more loyal henchmen, sometimes it felt like he was corralling two unruly dogs. "I'd rather look like a Weasley than you, anyway. At least they're pure-blood—blood-traitors though… how many men did your mother marry again? Was it the third man who fathered you or the fifth? Oh wait, you don't remember, do you?"

"It was the second." Zabini's smirk had washed off. "And for your information, he was a pure-blood."

"Oh, so your mother's the mudblood!"

There was a reproachful "Draco!" from one of the girls next to Pansy and Zabini spat on the floor before stalking to his dormitory. Draco shared a laugh with his friends—though Crabbe and Goyle were always a second late—but his moment of triumph was cut short with another lecture.

"You're not supposed to use that word outside!" Daphne Greengrass stared reproachfully at him. She was a frail, sickly girl but not now. A white anger seemed to radiate from her every pore.

"So what if I do?" She was part of the Twenty-Eight, unlike Zabini. Draco frowned; what on earth was she so angry about? "I'll call them for what they are. Besides, the Heir of Slytherin seems to agree with me—by the end of the year, I'm sure he'll have them all cleaned up."

There was a nervous tension in the air. Tracey Davis—why was he surrounded by girls? —spoke with a wary smile. "He's right, Daphne. Didn't you hear about Granger? She's been attacked… Theo told me she's covered in hair!"

Pansy shrieked with laughter and at once, the mood lightened. Even Greengrass lost her icy glare—now that the topic had shifted from killing to mere inconvenience, she let out a giggle. Draco forced himself to sneer but inside, his heart began to beat harder. He had forgotten about the entire Polyjuice escapade until now, had shoved it deep in the back of his head. Granger brought the memories back up like bile and he began to feel slightly paranoid about the whole thing. Why on earth did Davis have to bring that up now? What if there was no cure? What if he hit puberty tomorrow? And why was he at Hogwarts—shouldn't he be at St. Mungo's, locked up with all the other lunatics? At least there he would be able to see them working on something—it was a hospital, wasn't it—unlike Professor Snape who, incidentally, seemed to have forgotten about his ailment already. He certainly didn't seem worried.

"Draco, Draco! Didn't you hear? Granger's got a tail! Maybe the Heir's turning them into animals!"

"They're already animals!" For once, Crabbe had made a witty comment in his life. The group exploded into a gasping laugh, though Draco thought that they were laughing more for the sake of Crabbe having made a joke than anything funny. In the midst of their little party, Draco spotted a pair of girls staring at them. Their eyes looked a little watery and a little sharp.

"Who're they?" He pointed them out to Pansy. They looked away quickly then perhaps realizing their perilous situation, ran towards their rooms. It was very reminiscent of two rats running away from a snake just beginning to stir.

"Oh them? They're nobody," she spoke in a strained voice. Clearly her mirth had not faded just yet. "Just some muddies. First year, I think."

"That's Alice and Bryony," snapped Greengrass, "and they're in our year. You borrowed Bryony's quill in Charms, remember?"

"I think it's still in my bag," snickered Pansy. "Ah well. If she wants it, she can ask for it."

"I'll take it," Tracey Davis piped up. Her eyes gestured towards Greengrass briefly. "Daphne and I were about to go to bed anyway, right?"

Greengrass hesitated then nodded fervently. The two girls then set off for their dormitory with Pansy's, "And don't touch anything else! Just the quill!" following right behind them.

"So Draco," Pansy purred. "You never told me about the Heir of Slytherin. Didn't you say that—"

"You know what? I think I have to go to bed as well." He started for the dormitories, Crabbe and Goyle not far behind him. He could almost see Pansy's grimace in her voice.

"I can't believe you're telling those two idiots but not me!"

* * *

It was the middle of the night when Draco was woken by a firm shaking. Theodore Nott had entered—no, intruded—past his bed-curtains and was now sat by his side.

"What is it, Nott?"

"You want to lower your voice, or d'you want everyone else waking up? Anyway, I was in the library during break," he whispered, "and I was reading up on colouring charms, see?" He pulled out his wand and Draco flinched. "Relax. It's not like I'm going to curse you."

"Are-you-mad?" Draco flung his covers aside as he sat up. "It's the middle of the night! I don't have time for your colouring charms or whatever it is that you want to do. I'll tell Professor Snape if you don't go away."

"Alright, keep your hair on. Just close your eyes and it'll be done."

"No! I refuse," he whispered. "Furthermore, it's creepy what you're doing and I don't like it. I'll tell Professor Snape, I really will!"

Nott looked nonplussed, even in the dark. "What is?"

"What's what?"

"Creepy."

"You sneaking into my bed in the middle of the night is what's creepy!"

"Your imagination's quite something, isn't it?" Nott shrugged and poked him on the head with his wand. He muttered an incantation, flicked his wrists, and whispered, "Lumos."

They both squinted in the sudden light. Draco could tell from Nott's expression that things had not gone according to plan.

"Well?"

"Er, you're still ginger." He extinguished the light and stuck his wand back into his robe. "That's strange. I was sure I did the motions perfectly. Want me to try your eyes next?"

"Nott, you idiot. I already told you that Professor Snape's working on it. Go away." Draco rolled over and pulled his sheets over his head. There was a creak and the mattress shifted as Nott stood up.

"I was just trying to help," he huffed. "That must be some strong magic, huh? What was it you said again? Somebody in Knockturn Alley did this?"

Draco stayed silent and pretended to sleep. His words clearly weren't working on the idiot; perhaps silence would bore him and force him to leave well alone.

"Draco? I know you're not sleeping. Knockturn Alley, right? Where was it? Only 'cos father tells me things about Borgin and Burkes, y'see, and there's quite a bit of cursed antiques in there from what I hear. Maybe the bloke who cursed you did it with something from there, y'know? I could ask father to see if there's anything that changes your hair colour—"

He ripped the sheets from his head and threw his pillow at Nott.

"Can you please shut up? I already told you, I've been jinxed; not cursed. And I already know all about Borgin and Burkes," he sneered, "it's not like your father's the only one who's ever been there. Why are you even talking to me—we're not friends anymore, remember?"

There was a muffled groan from the bed next over. They paused, silent for once, and when it was clear that Crabbe was not going to wake up, Nott spoke.

"Well how was I to know? S'not like you made it official or anything. You just stopped talking to me in the first place."

"In the first place! In the first place, Nott, it's not like you made it any easier. You never wanted to hang out with Pansy, or, or, Crabbe, or Goyle, or Greengrass." His whispers were getting louder and louder. "Or Davis, or Millicent, or whoever Alice and Bryony are—"

"You know them too? I was just speaking with Tracey a bit, actually."

"—And it's not like I could spend all my time with you, you know? So obviously—"

"Her friend's sick, y'know. Daphne? Tracey told me it runs in her family."

"—and that's why I want you to leave me alone!"

"Fine, I will. Y'know, you're the biggest prat I ever knew. I was in the library all break, trying to fix your stupid hair."

"WELL I NEVER ASKED YOU TO, DID I?"

"FRIENDS DON'T NEED TO ASK FOR HELP!"

Candles flickered back to life on their own, Draco's bed-curtains were swept aside and Terrence Mullberry, the Slytherin Prefect, was glaring at the both of them. At a word, Nott scarpered back to his bed and even though Draco found it all perfectly unjust—for who had been the one to wake him up in the first place? —he too had been given a talking to. His sleep was marred with violent dreams where he found himself hexing Nott in a million different ways.


	5. Permanence

The days flew by and Draco realized that nothing had really changed beyond his gender. No one seemed to mind his hair nor his eyes—though Potter had made his smart remarks—and he became convinced that the potions were doing their work. The only real inconvenience was needing to sit when he went to the bathroom—Crabbe and Goyle stood outside the doors, daring anyone to enter while he took care of business. Nott had grown even more infuriating since their last fight—upon hearing of Draco's usage of the cubicles, he'd spread the rumour that Draco was growing hair down _there_. It got to the point where Terrence Mullberry, the Slytherin prefect, offered to sit down with him and tell him all about growing up.  
"It's nothing to be embarrassed about," he'd said. "Every wizard goes through it." It took Crabbe and Goyle both to physically escort Mullberry out of the room. "If you're not comfortable talking about this with me, Professor Snape's always available!"

This Draco knew to be untrue. Professor Snape barely had any time for his "nagging", or so he called it. "There are more pressing matters at hand, Mr Malfoy," he'd said. "Two Petrified students, a cat, and if that weren't enough, a ghost. I can not be spending all of my time attending solely to your matters."

"They're only Petrified. Anyway, you're supposed to be helping me! Father said so."

"Potions take time to brew and worrying is not an ingredient that I require. Your next class begins soon—out."

* * *

This nagging feeling of Professor Snape's uncaring nature proceeded to bite at him all week. The only thing that could truly take his mind off things was Quidditch practice. Their next match was against Ravenclaw—a pathetic rag-tag group whose best brooms weren't worth the handle of their Nimbus 2001s. Still, Flint had insisted that they practice—Draco suspected that he merely wanted to fly on the Nimbus—and the team took to the air while the rest of the school got ready for supper. The wind in his hair felt wonderful. This was why humans had always wanted to fly, he mused. His practice laps around his manor had definitely helped things and the Snitch never had a spare moment to rest—Draco snatched it again and again to the resounding cheers of his teammates. Even Flint, who'd nearly blown Draco's head off, wore a sleazy grin on his face.

"Alright, that's enough." Flint sped to the ground. "You lot, get this mess cleaned up. Malfoy, the Snitch. I'm off to the showers."

Draco was glad that he wasn't a Beater. Their robes were getting all muddy from wrestling the Bludgers back into their box. The Snitch, meanwhile, had grown dormant in his gloved hand. It was simply a matter of clipping it back into place. The Slytherin team retreated to their lockers, carrying the Quidditch equipment between them.

"I hate Flint," confessed Bletchley. The Keeper's face was red from exertion. "This thing's bloody heavy and he never helps carry it, does he?"

Adrian Pucey grinned. "Naw, y'see, Flint here needs to take his shower. Lazy git."

"I hate you too. You treat practice like it's a real game. You whipped it at my ribs."

"If you caught it, your ribs wouldn't hurt so much."

The rest of the conversation was lost to Draco. He'd forgotten about the showers. Changing robes had been easy—he'd changed in his common-room beforehand to his team's amusement—but the showers? There were no curtains there, no privacy. And although Draco trusted both Professor Snape and his father in finding a cure to his plumbing, he had no intention in becoming the big joke of the school. He could already hear it: "Draco got hisself turnt to a girl."

"I'm going to fly a bit more," said Draco.

Bletchley turned around and squinted. "It's gonna rain soon."

"I'm not scared of a little rain."

The rest of the team were beginning to mill around curiously. Bletchley handed off the Quidditch equipment to the Beaters, nodded over to Pucey, and the two of them walked over.  
"We'll be over in a minute," he said. "Just… just clean up for us, won't you? We'll get it next time." There was a collective groan from the rest of the team. "Hey, you guys get the hot water!"

"If Flint don't use it all first," Pucey agreed. "Now what's going on?"

"Draco wants to fly a bit more. I think," Bletchley's voice lowered, "he's gone a bit twisted over what Flint said." They exchanged the sanctimonious, knowledgeable looks that adults often exchanged when children were in the room.

Draco scowled. "I can hear you, you know."

"Y'know what? Forget what Flint said. You're a good flier, Malfoy."

"Yeah," said Bletchley. "Yeah, you are. You don't need to prove yourself to us like this—"

"Was just nerves that game—"

"—anyway, suicidal what with the storm tonight—"

"—Terence weren't even that good, was he—"

"—and anyway, Flint's a right bastard so who cares what he says—"

"It's not that!" Draco's frustration boiled over. Everyone seemed to be mistaking him nowadays. "I just don't want to take a shower with you lot."

Again, the two boys shared a knowing look. Draco could almost imagine them as two gossiping mother hens, dressed in gaudy, too-tight robes while sharing a cup of tea and tapping the sides of their noses.

"Y'know what this is, Miles?"

Bletchley snickered. "Little Malfoy's growing up."

"Bless him, but I never thought he'd be so shy, y'know?" Pucey was looking more like a grandmother with the dying light.

"T'aint nothing to be shy about, Malfoy. Look," Bletchley dropped his robes. Adrian Pucey shrieked with laughter. "Everyone's got a bit o' hair around their parts!"

For his part, Draco covered his eyes. "Pull your robes back up!"

"Sorry Malfoy, no can do. It's shock therapy, it is."

"What's shock therapy?" Pucey butted in.

"A Muggle thing. They put lightning in their brains."

"They don't die?"

Bletchley shook his head; Pucey whistled. Draco screamed for Bletchley to pull up his robes.

"C'mon, Malfoy," Pucey snorted. "It's just hair. Just look at it and we'll let you go. Look, he's strutting around like a Lord now. If you don't look now, he'll never quit at it. Just look at him once."

Draco shook his head violently. For a few minutes, he could only hear Pucey giggling while Bletchley pranced about in the field.

"It's getting cold," Bletchley said suddenly. There a rustling noise as he pulled up his robes. "C'mon, Adrian. Let's go. Let Malfoy fly for a bit—with his Nimbus, he'll probably be able to just dodge the lightning anyway."

It was a long time before Draco opened his eyes. When he was satisfied that they had really gone to the showers, he let himself fly around the field—determined to forget what he'd seen.

* * *

The showers were blessedly silent. Robes lay scattered all over the floor for the house-elves to clean up. Draco tip-toed his way throughout the entire locker-room and when he was certain that no-one was hiding in the laundry baskets to scare him or otherwise flaunt their nether regions, he got in the showers. The water was luke-warm; Draco frowned. He resolved to send a letter to his father tomorrow, detailing all the little ways that Hogwarts was failing in as a supposedly top-tier institution.

The water washed off the mud and the scent of the rain. It was like a massage to his sore torso—Quidditch players needed a strong core to stay on their brooms—and for a while, he let himself enjoy the gentle massage; soaps lay forgotten. It was only when he began lathering on _Bubocous' All Natural Stone Soap_ when he noticed the hair. A small, ginger hair under his left arm. He strained to see his underarms, even got out of the water to see clearer, and the coldness he felt was not from the rapid transition from shower to locker-room. It was fear.

How could this have happened? He had a strict daily regiment of potions that both Professor Snape and his father had promised him would work. And yet it was clear that he'd begun to hit puberty—or something like it. His mother had explained to him of the symptoms he needed to be aware of… this was one of them. He blinked the water out of his eyes to clear his vision before looking at the hair once more to confirm his suspicions. He even tugged at it a little with his fingertips. The ensuing pain assured him that it was real.

"This can't be happening," he moaned. Then the cold drove him back into the shower, where he crouched and let the water pound over his head. Was this the end? Would he live his life just like the girl his father had told him about—jumping in and out of St. Mungo's to test experimental cures? His tears mixed in with the shower; they dirtied his face just as soon as the water cleaned it. On and on it went in a self-pitying loop until the water petered off. The showerhead dripped on his head periodically—was there nothing in this school that worked properly?

The ensuing anger Draco felt drove him to his feet. There was nothing to it. He'd go to see Professor Snape. Now that the unthinkable had happened, Draco needed someone with a clear head on their shoulders. He pulled on his school robes and ran towards the castle. His robes dripped with water; his hair hung around his face in a wet sprawl. Draco could already hear his father complaining about appearances, but this was no time to preen about, not when his entire life hinged on this moment.

* * *

By the time Draco arrived at the dungeons, his hair was drenched with more than just water. He was sweating like never before, despite the fact that it hadn't been much of a run. Professor Snape's office was in view; Draco wrenched the door open and fell to his knees.

"Professor Snape, sir, it happened," he gasped.

There was a stunned silence amidst the flickering of the fire. Professor Snape's eyebrows lay bunched together, like a tangle of angry, bristly caterpillars. An older student looked bemused but she did not say a word; a cauldron lay brewing in front of her along with parchment half filled in with messy writing.

"Did your father not teach you how to knock, Mr Malfoy?" Professor Snape rose from his chair. "Miss Farley, we will reschedule your session for another time. Mr Malfoy, off the floor and on your feet."

A smile flashed across her face and the older student wasted no time in gathering her things before skipping out the door. There was an ominous silence as the door closed behind her and for a second, Draco found it difficult to find his tongue. He had never seen Professor Snape looking quite as annoyed as he now appeared to be with him.

"Well? I trust you have good reason for interrupting my class?"

Draco gulped. "I-I didn't know classes ran this late, sir."

"Remedial potions. Pray that you will have no need of them, Mr Malfoy. Now, explain."

"Well, you see sir… well, er, I've—"

"Enough with the stuttering, Malfoy, and spit it out!" The pleasantries had been nixed; Draco took a step back involuntarily.

"I've got a hair, sir."

"Your potion does not require any additional hair," Snape replied.

"It's here," Draco pointed towards his left underarm. "I don't know what to do. Should I pull it out? Sir?"

There was a flash of understanding then, and perhaps compassion. It didn't fit Snape's face at all. It was like a Muggle with a wand, or a troll with a diploma.

"Ah," was all he said. Snape stood there for a long time before raising his wand. Instantly, Draco felt warm and dry. However, it had the nasty side effect of fluffing up his hair. "Sit down, Draco. Show me the… hair, if you are able."

Draco hesitated then pulled his arm out of his robes. He raised it as high as he could reach and closed his eyes. He could feel Snape's beady eyes boring in on his underarm, heard a little "tch", and silently hoped for the best.

"Put your robes back on. I shall need to speak to Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore?" Draco stood up, furiously shoving his arm back into his robes. "What about me? Aren't you supposed to speak to me first? Sir?"

"Very well, Draco. I would recommend you sit, first."

Draco sat.

"As you can see, Draco, you have begun to grow up. The time I spent brewing your potion has unfortunately, gone to waste. There is nothing more to be done, do you understand me? The Polyjuice potion and your body has begun to intertwine far too deeply for the cure to pull them apart. Not without causing severe side-effects."

"I can live with side-effects! Greengrass is sick all the time too!"

"Her condition is not of your concern. Draco, you must trust me when I say this—the effects of drinking the cure would be unbearable. I would need a few months or so more to brew it and by then, your body will have gone further along the path of being one with the Polyjuice. By that time, pulling out the unwanted magic out of your body may lead to blindness, or paralysis, or even becoming something like a Squib."

Draco flinched. A life without magic? Why then, he'd be no better than one of those mudbloods—perhaps even worse!

"I am sure that your parents would not wish for a… damaged child. Nor would you wish to live out your days in such conditions. Now stay, I must speak to Dumbledore."

"So… the potion you were brewing…"

"Is effectively useless, yes. Were you not listening, Draco?"

And with that, Professor Snape set off for the Headmaster's office. This was something he needed to say in person, he'd said. Draco sat alone in the dungeons waiting for his return. The impact of Snape's words had not sunk in to their deepest level just yet. The bubbling cauldron, left over from Snape's remedial potions, slowly lulled him to sleep.

* * *

When Draco woke up, he found himself in an unknown room. A large bird was seated just besides the table across him, lines and lines of portraits muttered and flitted about their frames, a large bowl of sweets sat on the table, and all around the room were various objects of questionable use. Draco shivered; his hand was squeezed in a reassuring grip and he looked up to see his father seated right besides him. His father's gaze, on the other hand, was directed towards Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape. It was filled with a cold fury.

"Are you awake, Draco?" That was Dumbledore. His voice was frail, kindly, and paradoxically, strong and firm.

"Yes, sir."

"Enough of this. Draco, be silent. Am I to understand, Dumbledore, that this change is permanent?" His father's voice cut through the room.

"You would be correct. I do offer my condolences, Lucius, although I cannot entirely see what is so awful to be a woman."

"You do not see." Lucius sneered. "Of course you would not. It was under your supervision that this incident—"

"If Draco had followed the rules of Hogwarts, then this would not have happened at all." There was iron in Dumbledore's voice, an iron that one would not expect to see in an old man.

"Rules! What rules were Potter, Weasley, and the Granger child following when they brewed up that infernal potion right underneath your nose! And you, Severus," Lucius rounded on his friend, "I would have expected better from your purported skills as a potion master. Didn't you learn anything from me? Not to mention students stealing from your stores while you laid unawares."

"We are here, Lucius," Dumbledore interrupted, "to discuss the future of your son's enrollment at Hogwarts. You may insult Severus and I at a different time—though you may need to make an appointment."

"Am I being expelled?" Draco blurted. Dumbledore smiled.

"You are not being expelled, Mr Malfoy. I daresay that Hogwarts has never expelled a student for being—or becoming—a witch in all its years. Your father, on the other hand, wishes to pull you out of this school."

There was a slightly guilty look on Lucius' face before he tempered it with anger. "Come, Draco, you can't possibly wish to stay _here_. Just say, 'yes' and I'll have you out of here and into a proper school. Do you remember me telling you about Durmstrang?"

Draco became aware of the adults staring at him expectantly. His father, he wanted him to leave Hogwarts, that much was obvious. Dumbledore wanted him to stay... Draco suspected that he wanted to brush this all under the carpet. It wouldn't do for the school's reputation, especially not now that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. As for Snape, Draco thought, he wanted to save his reputation as a potions master. Or something like that. He made eye contact with his professor and became horribly aware of Snape's black eyes. They looked downright predatory. He hated to disappoint his father... memories of his father crestfallen began to swim before his eyes. But still... Hogwarts, as archaic and dumpy as it could be, was his school. Besides, how would he be able to see the Chamber of Secrets play out all the way in Durmstrang?

"Father... I wish to stay."

"But Draco! Look at what this school's done to you! Now, your mother may be perfectly fine with—"

"Please, father."

"But... oh, alright. But I warn you, Dumbledore, Severus. One more incident, Draco or no, and I will be most insistent on having my son leave Hogwarts."

"It's all settled then." Dumbledore clapped his hands and Draco's robes transformed into his pajamas. An over-sized hat drooped over his eyes. "Severus will talk with you about further accommodations. You can't go on living like you used to, after all. Good night, Draco."

As his father swept him away from the office, Draco realized that he'd really become a girl after all. It was almost relieving to have to come to terms with it, instead of worrying day and night whether Professor Snape would brew him a cure or not.

"Do I need to change my name?"

"Of course not. The Slytherin common-room's still in the dungeons? You'd best be off then. I must speak with your mother immediately."

Everything had changed so fast, Draco thought. Just a few weeks ago, he'd been crowing about the Chamber of Secrets and now? Well, he was worried more about his own body than the fate of the numerous mudbloods in school, that was for sure. Still, it was nice that his father hadn't changed at all—yes, Draco was still his son. It was a calming thought and he held onto it whenever his tumultuous peace of mind threatened to break under the reality of the fact that yes, he'd turned into a girl in the end.


	6. RAMBO: FIRST BLOOD (THERE WILL BE BLOO

**Note:** ty for the tip about the boy's bathrooms, alicia. oh and for anyone else reading this, feel free to pick it apart. its not like i do any editing as it is. harharhar free editing :DD

* * *

Time strolled along on its unyielding path, taking no note of Draco's objections to his growing body. Everything began to hurt. It was as if his body was making up for twelve years of being a boy's and right now, Draco was getting cram lessons on how it felt to be a girl. There was nobody he could confide in at school; it didn't feel right to talk to Professor Snape about these things. For Draco's part, he'd hid everything almost professionally—Pansy Parkinson was still trying to cheer him up by mentioning various potions she saw boiling in Professor Snape's office.

"I think he's almost done brewing! We should have a party when your hair turns normal again, Draco."

Professor Snape had done nothing of the sort. Draco visited him many times after his lessons were done; each visit earned him nothing but Snape's ire. There were more important things at stake, he'd informed Draco, than vanity. One ought to learn to live with their mistakes… and incidentally, have you thought on what I've said? Your changes will become more apparent by the day.

To this, Draco had responded by stalking out of the dungeons and to the Owlery. No doubt his father would have some choice words for his professor. It seemed to Draco that nobody was taking this matter seriously. His father was an enigma; letters sent to him took years for a curt response. Professor Snape even suggested that it was better for him to just come out with it and perhaps move into the girl's dormitories while he was at it. A clean break, as it were. Dumbledore wanted him to move to a separate room entirely. One besides Snape's office in case the Polyjuice had any dormant effects just waiting to reveal themselves. The thought made him shudder; living next to a professor? Draco couldn't decide which was worse: having Professor Snape swooping in his room or confessing to his house that he had a girl's body now.

Even his mother only understood his growing pains. When Draco wrote to her complaining about how much it hurt to be a girl, she sent him an entire basket full of strange products: Witch Weekly's Anti-Cramp Ultra-Thin Pads: Complete with Vanishing Enchantments, Forget-Me-Not-Or-Not Pain Relievers, Knockout Pajamas: Apple Edition, and various other products branded with flashy words like invisible or sheer or ten-times-the-softness-you-won't-even-feel-it! It was a veritable smorgasbord of adverts; his mother had taken every single magazine headline and pasted it on health-care products that Draco hadn't even been aware of (but his mother had included a long message on the purpose of each single item). Aquila, his eagle owl, needed a week to recover from his trip. Two weeks after Draco's mother sent him again with another basket full of the same bunk from before.

There was no word on how Draco was to live in the future beyond a scrawled, "We'll talk about this when you get home." Were his parents fighting on how best to treat him? There certainly was nothing about Professor Snape's suggestion that Draco just learn to live as a girl. Sometimes he would get the rare snippet of information from his father—from this he learned that his father had not yet given up on him and that he'd paid a high-ranking medicinal witch from St. Mungo's to focus solely on his case. His mother on the other hand, continued to send him things he didn't want and little handwritten notes of encouragement. "Focus on your studies and we'll talk as soon as you get home" or "Try this ointment on; it's an old Black family recipe. Your grandmother used to swear by it."

Draco had a sneaking suspicion that his mother was far to eager to accommodate him.

* * *

It happened during Easter holidays. Blood on his sheets. Draco had woken from a forgotten nightmare and into a freshly brewed disaster. He thought of the pads his mother sent him; they lay stuffed under his mattress. But how was he to know when to wear those things? It wasn't like he was a master Seer, like Professor Trelawney—or so she claimed. If he ever grew old enough to take Divination, he thought grimly, he hoped that it'd warn him beforehand of bleeding. His mother had said to be wary if he felt any pain or cramping or bloating or general discomfort and anyway, she'd wear one just in case since the newer ones—the ones she'd sent him—were practically invisible to the skin, they made them so well nowadays. Why, her mother—that was your grandmother, Draco— had had to make do with the old Golden Fleece variants but then again, she had been a bit of a traditionalist, hadn't she? But Draco hadn't felt any of those… symptoms, since his mother had also sent him a boatload of pain-be-gone potions. Anyway, it didn't matter now, he thought angrily. His sheets were ruined already as were his Knockout pajamas.

He slowly got out of bed, mindful of the creaks it made with any movement. The snores around him soothed him and he slid off his pajama bottoms. He didn't know when the house-elves started their cleaning service, but he knew that he couldn't take a chance with his bloodstained clothes. Perhaps if he could roll up the sheets and the pajamas together… and shove them under the bed. Or maybe he could explain it as a heavy nose-bleed? It didn't even need to be heavy, he realized. It wasn't like the entire thing was soaked in blood, after all. Besides, explanations were only needed if he got caught. It wasn't like anyone bothered him in the mornings—Crabbe and Goyle were the only ones that dared and that was only when he overslept.

"This'll work." Draco nodded before rolling his sheets into a bundle; his pajama bottoms inside.

"What'll work?" There was a sweeping noise as his bed-curtains were wrenched open. Theodore Nott, insufferable nosy git as he was, stood accusingly in the moon-light. Draco could hear his heart stop, then restart violently as he whipped around to face his childhood friend.

"Merlin's beard! Draco—"

"Shut it!" He pulled Nott inside, pulled the curtains shut, and placed his hands over Nott's mouth. "If you don't shut up, I… I swear I'll choke you to death!"

As if on cue, Crabbe's voice cut through the din. His soft, menacing murmur was overlaid with sleepy undertones. "Draco? That you? W—" He yawned. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

There was no response. They stood there for what seemed like hours; Draco's hands clamped tightly over Nott's mouth. His heart thumped so that he thought it audible to the room; his legs were trembling from sudden exhaustion. Nott had gotten over his surprise, or so it seemed, for he was beginning to bite at Draco's palm. There was a devilish expression on his face and Draco wanted to choke the attitude out from him. Crabbe snored; Draco delivered what he hoped was a don't-you-dare with his eyes—a tactic his mother had mastered—and he pulled his hands away from Nott.

"Merlin's beard…" Nott muttered. "So that's what Snape's been working on?"

Draco struggled to wrap the sheets around his waist. He was distinctly aware of Nott's fervent gaze; didn't the fool have any modicum of sense?

"No wonder my colouring charm didn't work," Nott pouted. "And here I was thinking that I read something wrong. I knew my wrist-work wasn't the problem—it was you all along! And you didn't tell me!"

"I don't care about your stupid colouring charm." Draco spat. Another stain for the house-elves. "And you probably would have made things worse."

"Nah, not unless you like being ginger." The colour was trickling back into Nott's face, as was his attitude. There was a distinct sense of him rising above his station; his smug smile unfit for the kind of outcast that he was. Blood pumped through Draco's ears; there was a rush that blinded him and he swung at Nott's head. His punch landed; Nott gasped.

"Impedimenta!" The whispered spell was true; Draco froze. For all his efforts, his fists were merely inching towards Nott. He lay on the floor, clutching at his ear. He held his wand tightly in the other. It was still pointed at Draco.

"That's not very lady-like of you," Nott hissed. He stuck his wand back in his sleeves—Draco noted the modified robes, against school rules—and to Draco's ever-increasing anger, sat him down on the bed.

"You're the one with the secret, now stop it! Even Crabbe's not going to sleep though a fight—you're lucky I didn't yell. God, you hit hard—look at my ear." Even in the dark, Draco could tell it was red. He smiled—or tried to; the spell made it hard to do anything but stay still—and a sense of pride began to coax his anger down from its previous boiling point.

"Don't worry. That jinx ought to wear off in a few. Learnt that in the library—it's not in our books until Third Year. Great spell, isn't it?" He pat Draco on the back. If that was supposed to be a reassuring gesture, it had the exact opposite effect. Perhaps he saw the ensuing glare that followed, for he quickly placed his hands in his lap.

"But Merlin's beard, Draco! That bloke in Knockturn Alley? I reckon he was a pervert—d'you think he invented this jinx? Maybe you ought to go to Flitwick… bet he knows loads of spells like this. Normally I'd say go to Defence but with Lockhart around… hey, Draco. You'd better not fall for Lockhart now."

That last remark gave Draco the strength to break through the spell.

"I am not falling for Lockhart!"

"Alright, calm down!"

"I am calm," he hissed. "And anyways, it's not a jinx. I lied."

Nott remained quiet for once, perhaps he could sense that Draco was on the verge of breaking. Talking now would be ruining any chance for more information. On Draco's part, he was finding it difficult to spill the beans. Every time he opened his mouth, there was some mental block that squeeze his throat shut. The only word that managed to come out was "I", which didn't tell anything.

"It's okay," Nott said. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, it's not that. I want to; I just can't."

"Er, okay then."

They sat in silence.

"Maybe try taking a breather. You're gasping, y'know that, right?"

"I… I drank some Polyjuice Potion at-at Christmas."

"Mmm. Well, that's not permanent, that stuff."

"No! I mean, no," he whispered. "Well, normally i-it's not permanent. But I didn't follow the right instructions or something. And-and Professor Snape told me that I was an idiot and that the cure would take months to make because of those stupid Mandrakes and other in-ingredients that he doesn't have, even though he's a potions master. And then apparently if you h-hit puberty something inside you sort of just, fuses with the Polyjuice and y-you can't pull it out or you'll turn to a Squib. And that's worse than being a mudblood."

"Speaking of, did you notice my voice dropped? Hey, wait—I was joking, c'mon, relax."

"It's not a joke, idiot." Draco clenched his fists. Nott pointed his wand at him. "Your voice really did drop. And mine never will—never! Do you think that's funny?"

"You could always smoke. Some of those old ladies' voices are deeper than my father's. And you know how he sounds like." Nott hunched his shoulders and took on a deep-set grimace. "You mark my words, Theo, the mudbloods will be the death of Hogwarts. Oh, bollocks, I've gone and used that word again."

"God, don't tell me you're with Greengrass on this." The tremor in his voice was thinning out. Draco sniffed and wiped away a few tears.

"Better not to draw attention to yourself, I think."

"In case you didn't notice, Nott, the Heir of Slytherin's about. There's no need to keep our views hidden."

"You really didn't change a bit, did you? You make for a really foul-mouthed girl, d'you know that?"

"Don't call me that," Draco snapped. "This is only temporary. I'm still a boy."

"Well, only if you think you're better at potions than Snape."

Draco's shoulders slumped forwards. What Nott said made sense; if even Professor Snape, the best teacher in the school, had given up on his case, what use would there be in fighting against it? He wasn't an idiot. Only idiots fought for impossible things.

"But my father has someone at St. Mungo's working on it!"

"Oh god, don't tell me you're about to be one of those Mungoheads. D'you need a straightjacket now?"

"I am not! It's not like I'm crazy," he whispered. "I'm not a lunatic. I'm just in the wrong body, that's all."

"You sound crazy to me." Nott grinned. "Most people wouldn't believe you. You don't even look like a Malfoy—who's to say that you're Draco Malfoy at all? Maybe you're his girl cousin and he went off to Durmstrang after all. Maybe—oh c'mon, are you really crying?"

Draco buried his face in his pillow in a valiant attempt to suffocate his sobbing. He'd never been so emotional in his life. It was as if there was a conductor in his brain; he was quite happy to turn on the waterworks whenever he please, no matter how appropriate the occasion. Nott cleared his throat, waved his wand, and muttered, "Stop this ugly crying git; make him have a laughing fit." A few sparks flew out of his wand and stung Draco's hand. He pulled his head off his pillow and giggled hysterically.

"That's not even a real spell. See, that's what happens when you hang around mud—"

"Got you to stop crying though, didn't it? And I told you, stop using that word."

"MUDBLOOD, MUDBLOOD, MUDBLOOD!"

* * *

Draco experienced déjà vu: the candles flickered back to life, and Terrence Mullberry, insufferable Prefect of Slytherin House, pulled aside the curtains with an exasperated glare. His hair stood up on edge and there were faint traces of black underneath his eyes. Nott threw himself on top of Draco, or at least over the sheets. A few beds over, Zabini yelled at everyone to shut up and go to bed, which had the unwanted effect of waking up near everybody in their dormitory.

"You lot again? Look, it's lights out for a reason. I don't care if it's break, you're supposed to be sleeping! What on earth are you two doing?" There was a bemused smile on Mullberry's face.

"Just practising a few spells, is all." Nott replied hurriedly. "Draco here's worried about failing his Charms, er, sir."

"He's just a prefect, you don't need to call him 'sir'," Draco snarled. "Go away. It's deviant behaviour to disturb others' privacy."

Mullberry's eyes bulged. "As a Prefect, it is my duty to make sure that students are in bed, Malfoy. You ought to learn some respect—or didn't you learn from your, ah, accident down at Knockturn Alley?"

Mullberry turned around to see a handful of Slytherin boys beginning to crowd around Draco's bed. Another boy ran out the door—Zabini, Draco thought—and shouted, "Malfoy and Nott's having a go! I've got ten Sickles on Nott—any takers?"

"What's this, eh? Go on, get to sleep," Mullberry roared. "Back to bed, everybody! And you two! I'll be back in a minute—you'd better have sorted your affairs before then."

With that, Mullberry began sweeping the boys back into their beds—casting freezing charms on the curtains for good measure—before he ran off to corral the few Slytherin girls who'd come to peek at the trouble, coins jangling in their pockets. "Oi, Farley! Wake up, I need your help."

"Now you've done it." Draco pushed Nott off his legs.

"Done what? I covered everything up. You're the one yelling like a madman." Nott hopped to his feet. "I better get back to bed."

"Wait!"

Nott turned on his heels then sighed. "What?"

"You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"Nah. Not unless you really piss me off."

With that, Nott slipped into bed. Draco wrenched his curtains closed and lay still, waiting for the prefect to return. To his relief, Mullberry only took a cursory glance around the room before disappearing. As the whispers in the dormitory began to die off, Draco couldn't help but think back to what Nott had said. He'd need to have a good talk with him in the morning—what did he mean by pissing him off? Nott wouldn't dare leak anything, would he? After all, Draco consoled himself, they were childhood friends. They'd practically grown up together… and anyway, the only way to really make Nott angry was to talk bad about his dead mother.

When the room was still, Draco pushed off the sheets to discover more blood. Whether it was new or merely stained from before, he didn't know nor did he wish to find out. Being a girl, he decided, was a terrible, terrible thing.


	7. A Likely Accomplice

It was late when Draco woke up. Already he felt panic first thing in the morning. He scrambled to his feet only to find his sheets and pajamas sparkling clean. The house-elves had come through after all. Now these were proper creatures, not like the miserable wretch at home. Quick and quiet. Draco had slept through the entire thing. The bleeding had stopped sometime in the night. It didn't feel too recent, anyway.

"Thought you were awake."

"Have you ever heard of something called privacy?"

"Oh c'mon—we're both boys, aren't we?"

"I know you're just trying to get on my good side. Anyway, I need to change."

"I've already seen everything but alright." Nott closed his eyes.

"Not like that," Draco hissed. "Get the hell out!"

When he was confident in his privacy again, he changed into his robes. He kicked his bloody underpants underneath the bed.

"Alright, now we need to talk."

The curtains opened before Draco finished speaking. For his part, Nott looked almost jubilant.

"Happy, are you?" Draco tried his utmost to put some dignity in his curled lip.

"You bet! Now we're friends again. Y'know, Blaise tried coming in here while you were asleep. Said he wanted to see if you had a black eye."

"He did not."

"Don't worry; I chased him off. Told him that you're contagious."

"With what?"

"Sometimes jinxes can be unpredictable." There was excitement in his face. "Oh, god! You've got these Knockout pajamas too?"

"Put it back! What's it to you anyways!"

"Nothing! It's just that these are for girls." Nott smirked. "Pansy wears 'em. They're supposed to enhance your beauty while you sleep."

"That's not what mother said!" Draco spluttered. "I only wear them because they're supposed to give you a good night's sleep."

"What else did your mother give you? C'mon, let's see."

"Nothing!"

"Liar. I saw them yesterday—under your bed. When you hit me."

With that, he dropped to his knees and began pulling the baskets from out underneath Draco's bed. Friends, Draco thought as he sat on his bed. Were they friends now? Nott was an odd fellow. Right now he seemed more like a rat, digging out trash from underneath his bed. Still, he couldn't deny just how good it felt to talk to someone without all the falsehoods for once. And Nott didn't seem like he was going to leak his secret…

"Ugh, bloody knickers!"

"Don't be disgusting; don't touch them!" Draco kicked at Nott's ribs. He yelped in pain. "That's for the house-elves, you freak."

"I wasn't," he whined. The baskets were all in the open; Draco suddenly felt nervous about the curtains being open.

"Where is everyone?"

"Don't worry. They're all eating lunch by now. Hey, what's this?" Nott shook an elaborately decorated tin.

"Some ointment from mother. I actually think it's homemade, can you believe it?"

"What's it for?" Nott opened it to find an oily, tar-like substance inside. It smelled like a peppermint that had been sucked by someone with bad breath.

"Never you mind." Draco snatched the tin out of Nott's hand and threw it back in the basket. "Why do you care so much anyway?"

"I've never kept a secret before." Nott shrugged. "It's fun. Real friends share secrets all the time, y'know?"

"You'd better keep it."

"I know, I know. Stop nagging me already. It's very tiresome of you. Hey, look. Witch Weekly's Anti-Cramp—"

"I know what it is, shut up!"

"Keep your hair on. I told you, no one's here." Nott began to read the back of the package. "Enchanted with vanishing charms? Suitable for daily wear—invisible to the touch. Liners. Interesting."

"How are you so okay with this?" Draco snapped.

"I mean, it's not exactly the first time I've seen a bloke exchange his trousers for a dress. Your problem's that it's permanent, that's all."

"It is not permanent!"

Nott ripped open the package before pulling out what Draco assumed was the pad or liner or magical underpants that he certainly didn't need.

"You wear this sort of thing? It's kind of like for babies, isn't it?"

"No, it's for girls."

Nott shrugged. He bent the thing back and forth. It resembled a slipper of sorts. It was certainly very thin; it almost had a paper-like consistency, only that it didn't tear at Nott's touch.

"Draco, you're not wearing this, are you?"

"Of course not!"

"See, that's your problem! If you just wore this bloody thing, then you wouldn't have—"

"Oh, shut up."

"C'mon, try it on."

"You're really a freak, aren't you? And anyways," Draco's voice faltered. "I don't even know how."

As if on cue, a letter from his mother hopped up out of the basket and into the air. What had appeared to be mere scribbles on the paper began to rearrange themselves. The ink drew itself into a series of instructions, with neat drawings to accompany the message.

"I should get your mother to teach me that spell," Nott said. "Then we could send each other notes in class that only we could read."

"What—I am not writing you notes in class!" Draco snatched the note out of the air.

"So are you going to wear it?"

"I really don't understand you. First you don't talk to anyone at school then next thing I know, you're all friendly with Greengrass and her friends, and now you want me to wear this stupid thing!"

"It's not like I'm really her friend. I just talk to her in class sometimes, that's all. Don't be jealous."

"I'm not. Now go away."

"So you are going to wear it!"

"I just don't want a repeat of last night, alright?" Draco pulled the curtains closed on Nott's face. Of all people to share his secret with! Why couldn't it have been someone normal… even Crabbe and Goyle would have been better than Nott. As stupid as they were, they weren't as pushy or headstrong as Nott was. It was exceedingly grating. He regret ever wishing to speak with Nott in the first place.

With his mother's instructions, it was extremely easy to wear the thing. Perhaps the product itself anticipated that it'd be sold to young witches, for it attached itself to his underpants when his clumsy fingers missed the mark—although, seeing how it was a boy's underpants, it'd had to readjust some of its makings. It felt a little cold to the touch but a few moments later, it was as if he'd never worn it to begin with. Draco could see why it'd been labelled as Ultra-Thin.

"Done?"

Draco pushed aside the curtains and nodded. His cheeks were flushed. Nott grinned before sending the baskets back underneath the bed with a flick of his wand. The tin caught on the edge of the wooden frame and subsequently was crushed. Black liquid seeped down onto the floor.

"Sorry." Nott tucked away his wand.

"Forget it. The house-elves, they'll get it."

"Excellent. Shall we get something to eat then?"

All at once, it was as if a huge weight was lifted from Draco's shoulders. The day seemed brighter already; the light streaming in through the lake was a light, spring green. He could do this. With his mother's help, he could get by with this hated body of his. Why, there was nothing to being a girl after all! Although Nott wasn't the ideal accomplice—though who was? —he was tolerable so long as he didn't open his big mouth. And seeing how Nott was something of a loner, the chances of his secret getting out was that much lower. The only thing that would make his day better, Draco thought, would be meeting the Heir of Slytherin and personally congratulating him on his noble quest. That and lunch.


	8. End of a Year

Play with fire, get burned. Or better yet: dirt rubs off on you. This was what Draco's mother had warned him against; this was the very reason he wasn't to associate with mudbloods, no matter how smart or beautiful or kind. Nott wasn't a mudblood; far from it, as his ancestors had been the ones to think up the Sacred 28 to begin with. But he was an outcast, and in Draco's experience, outcasts were often outcast with good reason. He was beginning to become associated with Nott and Nott alone. Even Crabbe and Goyle seemed distant, though he could still bring them to heel with a snap of his fingers. He missed Pansy—or at least, her attention.

"It's not fair," Draco said. "Everybody seems to be getting the wrong perception of me. People seem to think that I'm like you now."

"That's rude of you." Nott threw a crust of bread into the lake. An unseen tentacle soon rose to prod at it before deeming it edible. "You keep talking like that and I'll toss you to the squid."

The black waters hid its contents jealously. Even at the shallowest ends, it was hard to make out your feet from the ground. Draco caught a glimpse of a floating, translucent eye. The giant squid… it held no emotions, but its unblinking stare made Draco sit further away from shore. Nott brushed off his robe into the water; little crumbs sprinkled the surface as a light shower.

"You're looking weirder every day now. Sometimes I forget that you're even 'Draco Malfoy'," Nott said.

Draco said nothing and only shrugged.

"You need to cut your hair soon too. Want me to do it for you?"

"I know that you just want to practise your Charms. I'm not an idiot."

"Alright, well… I'll take that as a yes." Nott took a hold of Draco's fringe. In his other hand, his wand.

"Don't make me look like the Fat Friar or I'll kill you."

"Ah, never mind."

Draco's hair poked at his eyes now. Gone were the days of his slicked-back do. Second year was almost over, anyway. Then he'd go home and have a nice long chat with his parents about what to do. The leaves rustled above and fell on the lake. A navy of green nestled on the waters, bobbing about in the giant squid's wake.

"I'm bored," said Nott. "You're boring. All you do is mope around now."

"I'm not your mother or your bloody plaything to dance about like you please."

Nott lay his head across Draco's lap. Draco flinched but otherwise made no sign of acknowledgement. He had long learned that attention only served to fuel Nott's antics.

"Let's talk about your father," Nott said.

"Let's not."

"C'mon. He's in the ministry; he must know something interesting. Or better yet—maybe he knows who the Heir of Slytherin is! Seeing how he's on the board and all."

"I've already told you, he won't tell me. I've already sent him a dozen letters—I suppose I'm lucky if he decides to respond to even one."

"Alright, nix the Heir. How about that scandal with that Patterson bloke's wife? Y'know, the one at Portkey's."

"How'd you know about that? Father told me that it's been all hushed up."

"It's not like my father does nothing." Nott smirked. "He was there, in person. Even saw them teleport back—the secret boyfriend, the wife—God! I wish I was there to see Patterson's face!"

"I'd kill them both if I were him. Do something about it myself instead of leaving it up to the courts."

"You're such a nasty girl, aren't you?"

"I am not a girl, I already told you!" Draco pushed Nott's head away. "You're an idiot. Now I won't tell you what father said about Dumbledore."

"C'mon, I'm sorry! I was just joking."

"Well you should have thought about that beforehand, shouldn't you?" Draco got to his feet and began the walk back to the castle. It was such a juicy secret too—his father always lived up to his word. This was partly revenge—though his father hadn't exactly used that word—for what had happened to him, he'd written. Dumbledore was obviously going senile, unable to control the student body. As such, it was the duty of the board to find a suitable replacement. In the meanwhile, Dumbledore would soon be out of a job—and wouldn't that be nice for the Heir?

* * *

Fate held Draco in great regard, for in the days to come, she attempted to win back his affections through a series of fortuitous events. Head mudblood—Granger—was down, his father held true to his word and kicked Dumbledore out, and now, one of the Weasleys had been taken down into the Chamber of Secrets itself. However, Draco felt like each of these gifts were tainted—they certainly had the right idea, but their execution was lacking. For one, Granger hadn't actually died. Two, all the contrived luck that seemingly protected the mudbloods had Dumbledore scrawled all over it. And to top it all off, the Heir hadn't even taken the right Weasley—just the one girl. His life had a bitter-sweet tinge and nothing ever seemed to go exactly the way he wanted. It was Hogwarts. The very castle was against him; he'd never had such trouble before he got here. His father's offer to rescind his enrollment grew more appealing with every day… but it was all useless now, of course.

"They're going to shut the school down." Pansy Parkinson scowled. They had all gathered around Zabini's bed to discuss the latest news. "Now we'll have to go to Beauxbatons."

"I can't speak French!" That was Davis.

"You don't need to speak French to go to Beauxbatons." Zabini laughed. "Honestly, Davis, is there anything in there besides a Quaffle? Maybe you ought to be homeschooled—wait, that won't do. Your parents—"

"Oh shut up, Zabini." Greengrass looked even more frail in the green light. "Don't talk to Tracey like that."

"Daphne, it's okay! He's just joking."

"No, I really do think that you're an idiot. It's a shame the Heir doesn't go by marks."

"I don't know where you get the nerve talking like that," said Greengrass. "Everyone knows that you almost failed Transfiguration. You had to cheat off—" she broke off with a gasp. Her outburst had caused her to break out in a heavy nosebleed. Zabini howled with laughter; Tracey Davis launched herself at him. By the time Pansy, Millicent, and Goyle had pulled her off him, both Zabini and Davis were sporting blood.

"Now look what you did," Davis hissed. "Daphne's sick—" She clapped her hands over her mouth.

"I'm okay." Greengrass's voice was obscured through the flow. "Let's just get out of here."

The two girls stumbled out of the room. The mood of their little party had soured.

"Great, just great!" Pansy crossed her arms. "You always do this. Now I'm the only girl—again!"

"Pansy!" Millicent looked crestfallen; it didn't befit her at all. Draco had an intrusive thought flit in about Goyle wearing a wig.

"Oh god, Mills, I'm so sorry! It's just, you know—"

"Millicent looks like Goyle in a wig?"

"Do you want a black eye too, Zabini?" The rest of the group stared at Draco; he flushed slightly. This was exactly why he didn't want to be around Nott—his solitary reputation had obviously rubbed off on him.

"I wouldn't speak too loudly," Zabini retorted. "Not with that womanish voice of yours."

For what it was worth, Crabbe and Goyle still knew where their loyalties lay. They rose at a glance but Draco held them off. This was his battle to be won.

"I was just thinking, of course. I just wouldn't be too comfortable if I were you, you know? With your… shaky bloodline and all—I mean, wouldn't you be worried about the Heir sniffing you out? I know I would—well, I would be if I didn't know my father. He could be anyone, I suppose. A drunk," Draco sneered, "or worse. A mudblood."

"My father was pure-blood." There was a distinctive shade of purple in his face. "I've told you already."

"He couldn't have been very pure to begin with. Must've been quite muddy stock," Draco said. "I don't recall seeing your name on the Sacred 28. Even—I'm sorry, does Pansy actually call you _Mills_? —Bulstrode's on there."

There was a point where you reached a certain suicidal anger and Draco had activated Zabini's. He stood up, wand out, Crabbe-and-Goyle be damned when Nott came in breathlessly.

"Dumbledore's back!"

"What?" Draco snapped.

"Professor Snape said so." He then seemed to realize the tense situation. His eyes focused on Zabini's wand, then on Crabbe and Goyle. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." Draco stood up and pulled Nott away from the crowd. "You're sure of that? Dumbledore coming back, I mean."

"Yeah. What was that all about? Blaise find out? I can speak to him; I know him. His mother came over a few times last summer."

"Well, it's no wonder he's such a tosser." Draco laughed. He sounded colder than he'd thought. "I suppose it's a terrible strain on him; his mother slutting about. Don't let your father alone with that woman—she'll suck the gold off his prick, I suppose, and then you'd end up a weasel."

"Er, alright." There was a disconcerted air about Nott. "So he didn't find out?"

"Obviously not you idi—oh, just tell me about Dumbledore. I thought he resigned!"

"I don't know… he's just back is all. I think they got the Weasley girl out of there too."

"Dead?"

"Nah, probably not. Snape didn't look too ugly."

"Typical. Nothing ever goes right for me, not after I drank that stupid potion."

He stormed off to his bed and wrenched the bed-curtains shut around him. He didn't care if anyone saw his little tantrum—this term was almost over and anyways, he wasn't sure if he could even come back to Hogwarts. By the end of summer, would he even recognize himself? The rate at which his body was changing scared him—it was as if a monster had taken over inside of him, slowly warping him into some macabre girlish costume. It was torture to watch it take place; he was strapped in on an unholy ride, unable to do anything but watch. It was a lonely prison. Nobody else seemed to give it much thought: his father, mother, Professor Snape, Dumbledore… everybody gave him the answers for the wrong riddle! He didn't want to learn how to live as a girl. He didn't want the special accommodations that the staff were pushing on him, didn't want his mother's baskets full of things to only accentuate his womanhood. He was still Draco but with every day that passed, it was getting harder to convince himself that this fact was not merely an opinion.

And it was no doubt, Draco seethed quietly, that it was Potter who'd foiled the Heir of Slytherin. Potter who'd brewed the Polyjuice, Potter who'd lured him into the girl's bathroom, famous Harry Potter who hadn't even been chastised for his transgressions. Detention? Draco almost pounded his pillow in frustration. It was a sign of bad administration, he decided, that such a crime as tricking him into taking the Polyjuice was punished—no, rewarded—with a mere week of detentions.

 _It was you who drank the potion in the first place. You who didn't think to check the book lying right next to you. You, who scrabbled around picking up every hair you could find. What was it you were thinking in that foolish little head of yours? The more hairs you put in, the stronger the potion would be? Ha!_

Draco pulled the sheets over his head to drown out the voice in his head.

* * *

Summer came fast. He was right, Potter was the one who'd destroyed the Heir of Slytherin and with it, the last dredges of his happiness. It didn't help that the Gryffindors won the House Cup—did Dumbledore need to announce it so pompously? —knocking Slytherin out for the second year running. Draco decided that there was an air of bad luck around him; it was after he entered Hogwarts that Slytherin first started to lose, after all. Even having his exams cancelled didn't cheer him up as much as he expected… there were a few classes where it'd be nice to have better marks—no doubt his father would have a word with him about that. He spent his birthday in solitude, not even coming out for Pansy's home-made cake.

This wasn't how he imagined things to be. He was thirteen now and over the school year, his body had ran hard to catch up to unwanted expectations. He was very grateful for his robes… perhaps next year, he could come back to Hogwarts with bigger ones. Loose and draping to hide his shape… but what about his voice? His face? Draco suspected that he would be able to pull it off for third year but fourth? He hadn't noticed until now the subtle differences between a girl's face and a boy's. He couldn't explain it, couldn't write a line about it, but the change was there. Even Millicent Bulstrode, who'd often been mistaken for a half-breed troll, was very obviously a girl. Draco spent the last few days of school locked within his bedroom whenever possible. He kept his head down during class—there was a paranoid line of thought running through his brain. It went, "They all know you're a girl. It's obvious! Just one look at you and everyone can tell the difference. You don't even look like a Malfoy anymore."

He couldn't stand the thought of being stuck on a train with his house-mate's probing eyes so by the end of the year, he'd arranged for his father to bring him home personally. The relief he felt upon leaving Hogwarts was marred by the fact that his own father needed a minute to recognize him.

"When we get home, Draco, we'll have a nice long talk about all this," Lucius said. Their carriage flew into the night sky, carried by invisible beasts. Draco blinked as the moonlight hit his eyes and stared as Hogwarts slowly shrunk to the size of his hand, a pinhead, then nothing. A strange thought clutched at his tongue, keeping him silent. If this was the last time he'd see Hogwarts, he realized, he would miss it. Scandals aside, Hogwarts had been his home.


	9. A Summer Day

When the going gets tough, the tough get going. That is what his mother told him. Draco hadn't expected the going to be so feminine in nature; after all, tough had a quite masculine tone to it.

"I am not ignoring you," his mother said. "It does not do to dwell on impossible things. We must simply move on, as it were, and live life to its fullest. You are whole; you are well—what more could you possibly wish for?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Draco. "Let's see… being a boy would be most excellent, wouldn't you agree mother?"

"If you want to be a boy again that badly, perhaps you'd better get your Potions marks up. Now, shall we try on the new robes? It's queen's blue—ambiguous, but not so much to deny your reality. Stop with the scowling. You'll ruin your face."

Ever since he got home he'd been his mother's personal dress-up doll. His wardrobe was looking more like a miniature version of his mother's by the day and these dressing sessions! If he was to be a girl, he could do with a lot less clothes and a lot more broomsticks. Flying was the only thing that helped stave off the panic he felt when confronted with mirrors or ribbons or ancient traditional robes. The cut of these things was all wrong, anyway. They were too tight around his waist and to be frank, very womanly in nature. Why, they almost looked more like the muggle dresses than proper wizarding robes.

"There now. You look very proper—more if you'd stop scowling—but I think these will do very nicely."

"You do realize, mother," Draco sighed, "that Hogwarts has a dress-code? If I'm ever to go back, that is."

"Oh, I'm well aware of Hogwarts and her rules. These are well within regulations. If that school didn't kowtow to families like the Weasleys, well, we'd be able to dress you in robes even better than this. As it is, we must be careful not to flaunt our well-being too openly—your classmates may die of envy. That Dumbledore and his policies… when your mother went to Hogwarts, she could wear what she pleased. But now! With all the muggle-borns flooding into our communities... well, we must be careful not to upset their delicate muggle sensibilities, oh no."

"Can I go?" His voice was curt. His mother's rant had come in through one ear, only to be bashed into pieces by his day-dreams of flying.

"Just one twirl for mother. There you go—yes, wonderful. Very well, Draco, you may fly for a while. Don't get those robes dirty—you know we don't have a house-elf anymore. I still can't believe that nasty, ungrateful thing just vanished on our family! Your father's been trying his hardest to acquire another creature… when I was a girl your age, I used to know this wonderful servant, Kreacher—"

"Mother!" His legs were practically shaking in frustration. She let go of his robes with a frown; Draco almost tripped over his robes in his mad dash outdoors. He'd learned from experience that a single moment alone with his mother would trigger another, "Oh, Draco! Look at what your mother brought you. Let's try this on, shall we? Just to test the fitting, of course."

He ran into his father in the hallway. His disapproving glare near stopped Draco's heart.

"Your hat, Draco."

"What?"

It wasn't the answer his father had wanted. Draco could see his hair curling with anger—or was it frustration? —but his father merely pointed to Draco's head with his staff.

"The sun's out. You'll need your hat if you're to go flying in this weather. We wouldn't want another accident, would we?"

With that, he stalked off to Narcissa's study. Draco hurried on outdoors, stopping on the way to shove his pointed hat on his head. There was about to be another big fight and he preferred to be up in the air when it happened, so far away that their screaming row was nothing more than a murmur on the wind.

In truth, Draco felt a great deal of responsibility for his parents' anger. They had never fought as much as they did now—his father was of the opinion that his mother didn't care about their son. Your encouragement only serves to strengthen the potion, he'd said. To which his mother had laughed in reply and in her turn, mocked his knowledge—or lack thereof—of the Polyjuice, and while she was at it, potions in general. She was shocked, shocked that Lucius had once been considered a bright student—Slughorn must have only been after his family name, not his purported potions skills. The only thing to do, she'd said, was to go along with the changes as best they could. Did he really think that Draco would turn back into a boy? Magical maladies were immensely difficult to undo—did he want Draco to be locked up in St. Mungo's until he died, for God's sake?

He had a girl's body now, which made him a girl in the most important of ways, and as such, his mother had said, he would have to learn to live with it. And besides, what was so bad about being a girl? It was rather insulting the way everyone carried on about it as if to be a woman was to be death itself. No, she'd decided, it was best to raise Draco as a girl as best as they could and hope that in time, he'd learn to accept it and live a long and happy life—but most importantly, a free one, not one where he'd be poked and prodded all day by medical wizards as if he were nothing but an animal. His father had stormed out soon thereafter. He'd caught Draco eavesdropping—the door had hit him on the face—but instead of the expected lecture, had merely hugged him once before locking himself in his study.

* * *

He flew even higher now. The wind rushing in his ears helped drown out the noise in his head. When he was flying this fast, he could afford no spare thoughts beyond: "Watch out for that bird," or "You have to pull up now," or "Is that Theodore Nott?" A waving figure on the ground nearly caused Draco to impale the flying goose on his Nimbus; he spiraled out of control once, twice, before regaining his balance and swooping down to meet his—did he consider Nott a friend? —secret-keeper.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well that's nice of you." Nott frowned. "My father sent me to deliver a message to your father. Our owl's a little sick, y'see, and anyways, he reckoned I could use the exercise."

"I don't know about that," Draco said. "Any thinner and you could replace my Nimbus."

"Very funny. What've you been up to? Been awfully quiet lately… you weren't even on the train. Pansy was looking for you."

"Pansy?" Draco shook his head. They began the walk towards the manor. "What did she want?"

"I dunno, really. She didn't tell me anything—just that she was looking for you is all. Nice robes, by the way. Very stylish."

"It's not like I wanted to wear them! My mother—she's insufferable! Sometimes I think she wanted a daughter after all… God, I wish she would leave me alone."

"Yeah well, be grateful that you even have a mother." Nott shrugged. "She's only doing it cos she loves you."

"Oh, gross."

"There's nothing bad about motherly love—"

"Oh god, just stop it. Seriously. Ugh."

The din got louder as they reached the manor. Someone had left the window open and now they could hear the Malfoys yelling as clear as day. Nott looked curiously upwards before cupping an ear.

"What are you doing, don't listen!"

"Just curious. Your father doesn't seem very happy."

"Yeah well, be curious somewhere else. C'mon, we'll come back when they're done yelling." He dragged Nott off towards the big tree. There, they could wait in the shade. Draco took off his hat and began to fan himself.

"No haircut?"

"If it were up to me, I'd rather be bald. But mother said to wait and grow it out a little. Just so she can see how it looks—as if she's never seen long hair before!"

"'Spect she thinks that it'll grow on you." Nott frowned. "And anyway, you won't go bald. I've seen you in the bathrooms a million times, grooming your hair. 'Course, that was before all this but you're still a pompous git."

"You can't talk to me like that. Not on my property."

"Yeah right—without Crabbe and Goyle, you wouldn't dare."

"Are you here just to annoy me? I bet your father never even wrote that stupid letter."

Nott stuck a hand into his robes then pulled out a crumpled envelope.

"God, you can't even be bothered to store it properly."

"As long as he can read it—no harm done. Look at you, by the way. Fanning yourself like a muggle."

"Don't you dare compare me to a mudblood, Nott."

"You know what? I think the heat inflates your head a little, turns you mad. Give me that." He snatched the hat away from Draco's hands. "Watch."

Nott rolled up his sleeves, flicked his wand twice in a fanning motion, and said, "Algius." The hat began to levitate before an invisible hand began to shake it back and forth. A cool breeze let them know the spell had done its duty.

"Since when did you join the Muggle Liason Office?"

"Funny."

"No, I'm serious." Draco sat up straight. "You're on this whole crusade against saying 'mudblood'. You don't laugh at our jokes either. Don't tell me you're going blood-traitor. That'd be a shame—especially for a Nott."

"Relax. I just think Greengrass has the right idea is all."

"What's she got to do with it?"

"Look, all I'm saying is—you're so stupid sometimes." Nott rubbed his temples. "No one's going to respect you if you keep throwing around slurs like that, alright?"

"We don't need the mudbloods' respect."

"Not them! Just, you know. People like the Minister. Patterson. Half-bloods—everyone who isn't us. You have to get on their good side first; you can't just go around saying mudblood to anyone. It's bad for first impressions and they'll never listen to you afterwards."

There was a distinct air of shame around Nott as he spoke. If Draco didn't know better, he'd say that he was almost ashamed of what he was saying. Like an unruly child who hadn't learned their lessons, only parroting what their parents said to avoid a beating. But there would be a time to question where Nott's loyalties truly lay… he didn't want to worsen his mood by interrogating him.

"Just don't go all Weasley on me, alright?"

"Yeah. 'Course not." The relief on his face was palpable, almost as if he knew that he was given a way out. "Your parents are still fighting, by the way. Maybe I should just leave the letter with you."

"I'd rather you stay." Draco's voice was a whisper on the wind.

"Really? Alright then."

"They won't be as angry in front of a guest. Ever since I came back home! It's like I don't know my own parents anymore. Father's always locked up in his study and mother's trying to strangle me with shawls."

"Doesn't sound too bad."

"Doesn't sound too bad? Mother wants to try painting my face next."

"If you had to live with my father, you'd be begging for her to paint your feet next."

"I thought he lets you do whatever you want."

"He does."

"I don't see the problem then." Draco stretched his legs. The robe was unbearably stuffy—at least, when compared to his old ones.

"That is the problem."

"I always knew you were strange," Draco laughed, "but I didn't know how bad."

* * *

They sat under the tree until the sun went down. The purple-red yolk spilled across the sky but the best parts were blocked out by the manor. From the tree, it seemed so very dark and foreboding. The house itself seemed depressed and despite Nott noting that the screaming had ended hours ago, Draco felt no inclination to walk back in just yet. The wind was starting to grow some teeth in its bite and Nott disenchanted the hat. It fell to the ground; Draco left it well alone.

"Imagine if you were muggle-born," Nott started. Draco gave him a piercing glare.

"Don't you start on that again," he hissed. "I left the matter well alone only because you're my friend."

"So I am your friend!"

"Well… I suppose." To be quite honest, Nott was lucky that there was no word equivalent for one who edged between friend and enemy within a single conversation. Not one that rolled off the tongue as nicely as friend, anyway.

"Anyway, imagine if you were muggle-born." Nott ignored Draco's raised brow. "You couldn't even do magic at home, could you? Not with the Trace. So it's no wonder they do so bad at school—they can't practise over break, can they? Not with the ministry breaking down their door every half-spell."

"Explain Granger then."

"Er…"

"Mother thinks she's half-blood at worst. Or even a pure-blood adopted by mudbloods." Draco scoffed; Nott cringed.

"I—"

"Don't even start. Anyway, we're alone so I can say whatever I want. Isn't that right, Nott?"

"I mean, I guess…"

Nott retreated further into his robes as the evening chill settled in. Draco attempted to do the same, only to find out that his robes, as form-fitting as they were, were disinclined for any kind of stretching.

"I can conjure fire if you're cold." Nott smirked.

"It's summer," Draco retorted. He gave up trying to pull his arms inside his robe and settled for crossing them across his chest. His hands burrowed into his underarms, seeking what little warmth they could.

"Why don't you call me Theo? Or even Theodore?"

"What?"

"I mean, I call you Draco."

"So I should call you _Theo_?" His voice dripped with sardonic sweetness.

"Why not? You act all high and mighty but you're only a git—same as me."

"Alright, _Theo_."

The manor spit out two dark figures. Light emanated from their wands, sweeping the grounds like prison lights. Their tinny voices bounced over the perfectly trimmed lawn, calling, "Draco!"

"Let's go." Draco stood up and put his broom over his shoulder. "You can give the letter to my father over dinner."

* * *

He was right; his parents' tempers were well, tempered, with Theo's presence. Lucius had nothing but praise for Theo's father but the rest of dinner passed in a strained quiet. It was a chorus of clink-clinks of the forks against the crackle-pop of the fire. His mother had forgotten to light all the candles—she wasn't accustomed to work, Dobby be cursed—and the deep shadows made his parents look all the more miserable. There would be another row once Theo went home.

"Theo's staying over tonight," said Draco. "Is that alright?"

"What?" His father snapped out of his slumber. "I mean… Dear?"

"Of course he can stay." His mother spoke in clipped tones. "If Theodore's father agrees."

"He won't mind," said Theo. His attention was focused more on the roast. "He never does."

"All the same," said Narcissa, "I shall inform your father after dinner."

"I'm done eating. May I be excused?"

His parents looked up at him then nodded. Draco pulled Theo away from his plate and up the stairs.

"I wasn't done eating," Theo complained.

"You can eat later. Anyway, I expect mother's overcooked the roast. She's overwhelmed, or so she says. Did you know our house-elf took leave?"

"I didn't even know that was possible." Theo looked at his stomach ruefully. "Hope you have something to eat in your room."

"For how much you eat, you're awfully skinny. My room."

Draco had forgotten about the pageant his mother had held. Robes of all colours lay folded on the bed; boxes full of scarves, shawls, and winter cloaks on the floor; dainty gloves, pointed boots, and cashmere hats on whatever space remained of the room. Not to mention various undergarments littered here and there in small neat piles… accessories, earrings for unpierced ears… Theodore let out a delighted chuckle. He was a devil in disguise, one of those pixie monsters who indulged in others discomfort.

"What're you looking at? You want to wear them?" Draco knew it was a weak retort as soon as the words left his lips.

"Look at this hat," Theo whispered. He placed it on his head in a mocking, gentle nature. Draco wanted to rip it off his head—better yet, rip away the shimmering peacock feathers and use them for quills. "And these boots! You're like one of those posh witches—the ones you never see at Hogwarts."

"Put those back! My mother will have your head if you ruin them."

"Don't tell me you actually like wearing this stuff." Nott darted from one garment to the next, turning the neatly stacked clothes into a laundry bin.

"I don't, but they're worth more than your life. In any case, mother will blame me if anything happens to them."

"Nobody wears these things anymore—you'd look like my mother."

"Mother says that's because there's nobody proper left in England."

"Ah, these are better." Nott held up a dark-green robe. "I've seen Daphne wear something like this before. Without all the emeralds though. I suppose you could just—" He mimed pinching the jewels off. Draco snatched the robes away before placing it gingerly on the bed. He marched over to his dresser before pulling out a secret stash of sugar quills and pepper imps.

"Here." He tossed them to Theo, who scrambled to catch both before they hit the ground. "Something for you to do—you clearly need something to be preoccupied with before you tear my room apart."

"Thanbs." He'd started on the sugar quill, from the sounds of it.

Draco pulled out his wand and gave it twirl. The clothes began to stack themselves—more or less—into the corner. A single, furry, pointed hat topped the mountain of poorly folded robes like a Christmas angel. He pushed the few boots that hadn't responded to his magic under the bed. Everything seemed to be in order… he spotted Theodore wearing a pair of gloves made of Salisbury hare-skin.

"Take those off—you'll stain them."

* * *

And with that, the clean-up was complete. It almost seemed like his old room again. All he needed was a change of clothes and a hair-cut… and maybe all the mirrors in the bin. He stuck a pepper imp in his mouth—the smoky, slightly ashen taste made him cough a little. But nobody ate these for the flavour—in truth, it tasted like essence of fireplace—and in a few moments, smoke began billowing out of his ears.

"I reckon you'll blacken the ceiling," Nott said while chewing on his sugar quill. "My mother didn't let me eat those inside for a reason."

"Do you ever shut up? You're always ruining the moment."

"At least stick your head out the window."

"It's my house, my room, my rules." The smoke sputtered out. It gave one last wheeze, one smoke ring out of Draco's left ear, and soon there was no evidence of the pepper imp save for the soot on Draco's cheeks. He wiped it off instinctively with his sleeve before realizing what he was doing. This was much worse than simple mud.

"There, I told you you shouldn't have eaten them inside." Nott licked his fingers clean. "Now you'll get it."

"Oh, let her yell! So what," he spat, "it can't get any worse than it is."

"You could die."

"At this point, I wouldn't even be bothered."

"Don't say that," Theo snapped. It was times like this when Draco remembered that his friend had lost his mother. Just before he'd come to Hogwarts as well. Still, he wasn't going to apologize for merely stating his opinion—it wasn't like he was invoking Theo's dead mother's name, for God's sake. It wasn't his responsibility to tip-toe around everyone's sensitivities. So he did the best he could to break the tension—he shrugged and switched topics.

"So what was in the letter your father wrote?"

"I dunno—s'not like I read it." Nott frowned. Clearly he was still sore over Draco's flippant remark. He opened the packed of pepper imps then thought better of it. "Probably something about the Ministry."

"I suppose it's to do with the recent mishap with the unregistered Vanishing Cabinets. That caused quite a stir in the Ministry; father told me."

"Nah, it's nothing to do with that. My father doesn't care much about things like that—says the more the muggles get to know magic, the more they'll fear us. He reckons he could take twenty muggles with one hand."

"How old is your father, anyway?"

"He's not going senile, if that's what you mean. Just been drinking is all—gets to all these crazy theories if you don't take the bottle away from him. And that's bloody difficult sometimes—almost cracked my head open last Tuesday."

"That's terrible," Draco said blandly. He'd never really seen Theo's father and it really was terrible—he just didn't know what else to say. Luckily for him, Theo never asked for much; he was satisfied with mere scraps.

"Yeah. S'not all bad though. Don't keep track of most things in the house—thank God we've got a house-elf—so I just do what I want most the time. Been nicking loads of things from his study—I've tried most his brandy and some of his whisky, it's great. I'll bring some over next time. That is, if I don't get caught by my elf. The old bat's mostly loyal to my father."

The one time Draco had drank alcohol had ended up with him in a coughing fit. It was a sip from his father's cup… and he couldn't lie, ever since the Polyjuice, he was wary of anything too fiery going down his throat. He didn't want Theodore to think him a coward though, so he nodded enthusiastically. He could always spit it back in the bottle, he thought.

"I don't like firewhisky."

"No firewhisky; got it." Theo leaned back against the wall. "If you told me earlier that I was staying over, I could've come over prepared. Where am I sleeping anyway?"

"The floor."

"No I'm not."

"I'll throw you down a sheet and a pillow."

"Nah, I'm going to sleep on the bed." Theo threw himself down liberally. His limbs sprawled over the sheets and yet, none of them came close to touching the edge. "See? Look how big this thing is. You sleep on one end and I'll sleep on the other."

"There's honestly something wrong with you," Draco snapped.

"You're the one using me as a shield. I'm not going to sleep on the floor like some dog."

"Fine, sleep on the bed. I better not feel you kick."

Theodore promptly kicked out at Draco's head. A flash of anger, then Draco scrambled onto his bed with half a mind to choke him to death. His robes hindered him in this quest but not enough to stop him from overpowering his friend. The scuffle ended with Theo in a headlock, weakly pushing at Draco's arms.

"Alright, alright," Theo spluttered. "I quit. You're going to squeeze my head off."

The door opened and Narcissa poked her head inside. Her expression was anything but pleased.

"I've talked to your father, Theodore. He said that you may stay. Your father and I have a lot to discuss so please—relative silence. Oh, and Draco darling—we don't act like muggles in this house." She turned, hesitated, then summoned a small but comfortable cot in the room. The door slid shut and Draco released Theodore from his grip.

* * *

It was the middle of the night and he was being shaken. Even with his eyes closed, Draco could see the light inches away from his face.

"Why aren't you asleep?" he hissed.

"It's witching hours." Theo's eyes gleamed in the wand-light.

"I don't care; I'm tired." Draco pulled the sheets over his head.

"God, you're boring. C'mon, wake up already." He jabbed his wand into Draco's ribs. "Whoa—don't be so loud, you'll bring the whole house down. Are girls just boring in general or is it just you? C'mon, get up."

"I am up! Turn out that light already."

"Nox. Alright, listen, I've just had a cracking idea. Why don't we ride your broomstick over to my place—we can raid the pantry there, bring over some of my father's whisky, and we'll have ourselves a nice little feast. We'll need to dodge my house-elf 'course, but she's ancient and I think her eyesight's going."

"Theodore," Draco said in a grandmotherly air. "We both know that you're terrified of flying. At any rate, that's not what you do during witching hours. And mother wants me to watch my figure. Is this really something to wake me up over? Good night."

"Hey—no, get up, that's right, get up. Just get your broomstick already. You owe me, remember?"

"I wasn't aware we made any sort of deal to begin with, so no."

"You're using me so your parents don't yell at you or whatever; get your broom."

"Oh very well," Draco snapped. He eased himself off the bed and took his Nimbus off the wall-rack. "But I warn you, Theo, you keep indulging yourself like this and you'll be a dump in no time."

"Yeah, yeah, you sound very impressive—whatever."

They opened the bedroom window carefully. Without Dobby in the household, Draco wasn't quite sure which hinges creaked and which ones didn't. This one, thankfully, was silent. He was having a little difficulty in getting atop his broomstick—these accursed robes! —and he was forced to stand on top of his bed to swing his legs over the handle. Theodore Nott smirked; Draco resolved to fly to the moon. His Nimbus sank slightly under the weight of two and Theo wrapped his arms tightly around Draco's torso. He couldn't see Theo's face but he could sense that the boy had already shut his eyes.

"I suppose you couldn't move your arms a little lower?" Draco mumbled.

"Right, sorry."

"Just don't." He kicked off into the night, enjoying the little gasp that came behind him. He let the broom drop as low as it could go, until their feet brushed against the grass, before he soared off into the clouds. There was no traces of the wind from before, to Draco's disappointment. It felt rather dead—even the stars seemed dimmer tonight. He spiraled downwards before pulling up with a wrench; Theo half-screamed in frustration.

"I'll break your ribs if you do that again!"

"You wouldn't want to do that. I expect we'll fall off and die. Perhaps we'll land in the river and drown."

"Draco, stop!"

"I can't help it, can I?" His laugh was like shattered glass. "The wind's really strong tonight—oh, there we go again. Hey, ouch! Stop holding me so tight! I'll really crash this broom, I swear."

The moonlight was just bright enough for Theodore's house to loom up in the horizon. If Draco's manor had been wide, Theo's was a wizened tower. It spiralled up into the air like a giant, crooked wand pointing at the sky; stars seemed to shoot periodically out the chimney before lodging themselves into the cloudy fabric above.

"We're here. God, it's been years, hasn't it?"

Theo only nodded before saying, "Fifth floor. That's where the kitchen is."

"And we're just going to break in a window, I suppose?"

"You're really stupid, d'you know that?" Theo cracked open an eye before taking aim at the nearest window. "Alohomora."

"I need two hands to balance your dead-weight, that's all," Draco snapped. "Get in, then."

Not wanting to be upstaged by Theodore again, Draco slipped out his wand and illuminated the kitchen. It was nothing like his mother's. While she kept everything clean and spotless, you could sense that food was always around the corner. Theo's kitchen was pristine in the sense of disuse. It was more like a picture of a display in one of those catalogs for witches.

"I don't see your elf."

"She dotes on my father. 'Spect she's in his study shining his shoes." Theo shrugged. He knelt and opened a small pantry door. "Here we go. I wonder what this is—shine the light over here a bit, there you go—oh, elf-made wine. It's half empty though… I don't think I've tasted this yet so it must've been my father and you don't want any of his leftovers… half of this is probably just backwash."

"I don't like wine anyway."

"Er, let's see…" It was a wonder Theo's house-elf wasn't showing up with all the ruckus he was making. Twice, Draco thought that Theo had broken a bottle. "Red Hat's Old Gigglewater. I don't think this is a local brand… might be a gift from overseas. It doesn't look like my father's got to it yet… let's grab a Butterbeer too—just in case you're a lightweight."

"Oh, and I suppose you're an expert, are you?"

"Nothing else to do in this house." Theo shoved the bottles into his pockets. For the first time since his mother had forced him to wear the new robes, Draco realized that his were pocket-free.

"Let's get some food too."

"You're still hungry? You ate all of my sugar-quills!"

"Those aren't exactly filling, y'know. And you stopped me from finishing dinner." He hopped back onto the broomstick. "Food's on thirteenth floor. We'll have to be careful; my father's study is right above it."

The thirteenth floor had no furniture in it, nor any kind of fittings. No portraits on the walls, no cupboards, no cabinets, no beds, no sinks… there was, however, a great deal of boxes all stacked up in the middle of the room.

"This is where you keep your food?"

Theo shushed him before slowly opening one box. He made a face then whispered, "Gross. Canned chicken feet."

"God, this place looks like a dump. I would have expected this from the Weasleys… I can't believe you actually eat canned anything."

"There, found some beans."

"You can eat that. The can looks all funny."

"It's not rotten; probably from my father stepping on it. I think this is some kind of meat… it's a mince of something… maybe Mooncalf or Hippocampus. We can heat it up. Here, put these in your pockets."

"Your house is upside down," Draco said. "First you keep your alcohol—"

"What're you going on about? Just—ha! These robes don't even have pockets. Well, you could've just said so. I'll guess I'll just hold onto these then. You might as well carry around a handbag at this rate."

"Oh shut up already."

"Master?" A hoarse voice cut through them like a hot knife through butter; in an instant, Theo leaped onto the broom, his fear of flying replaced by his fear of his father's house-elf. Draco kicked off through the window and left the boney servant searching in dark, her stick-like fingers snatching about for the two boys.

* * *

The flight back home was uneventful, though Theodore had lost his canned beans halfway into their return. He was crushed by this loss and it took Draco giving up his share of the mincemeat to jolly him back to his senses. Before that he'd been insisting on turning around and risking the house-elf to grab another can. Draco didn't mind—the mystery mince had turned out to be Hippocampus, a nasty, oily, fishy-tasting meat.

"Okay, let's try the Butterbeer first." Theo threw the empty can of Hippocampus out the window. "Here you go. Don't look so worried. This stuff only affects house-elves."

Draco slowly drew the bottle to his lips. There was a slight aroma of what could only be described as melted sweets wafting from inside. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out Theo's expectant stare, and took a very small sip. It was nothing like his father's whisky. This was sweet—almost too sweet—and it didn't burn his throat going down, but rather coated it in a smooth, buttery aftertaste. His mouth felt a little thick and coated in the stuff; it was almost like drinking a melted flavoured candle.

"Well?"

"It's good."

"Told you it's nothing. My turn." Much to Draco's chagrin, Theo didn't even wipe the top off before he slugged the drink down. He really was an awkward and strange fellow, oblivious to the world's rulebook. "It's better when it's really cold though. Next year, we can drink this at Hogsmeade."

Hogsmeade… although Draco had never visited the village itself, the word filled him with a sense of nostalgia. It was too connected to Hogwarts for him to think on it without a sense of deep melancholy. If he'd just kept to his own business… then he could be looking forwards to Hogsmeade just like Theodore. When it was his turn to drink, he focused on the taste alone and tried his hardest to ignore any of its association with Hogsmeade or Hogwarts or otherwise. Just the rich, buttery sweetness… but there was a faint bitter aftertaste this time.

"It doesn't smell too bad." Theo had opened the bottle of foreign liquor. "Here, you try."

The fumes hit his eyes before it hit his nose, making his sight go watery. It smelled of Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing, sick and all. There was the acidic taste of bile in the air.

"Surely people don't actually drink this!"

"Stupid. This is what adults drink." Theo smirked. "Butterbeer is for children. I'm surprised you haven't tasted it already, to be honest. Open your mouth; I'll just pour a bit."

"It smells vile. Are you sure it isn't poison?"

"Don't be silly. C'mon, just a little. You can't call yourself a man if you don't drink; might as well start practising now. Ha! That did it. Okay, here it comes! Oh bugger me, I've spilled some on your robe. Sorry 'bout that."

It was all gibberish in Draco's head. Red Hat's Old Gigglewater, whatever it was, was strong stuff. The vapors had come in his mouth before the actual drink—it dried his throat up instantly. Gone was the silky-smooth lubrication of the Butterbeer; his throat felt like dried parchment and with every breath he took, it felt like it was tearing itself into little frayed pieces. The only respite was the drink he held in his mouth but it was a hard truth to swallow—it was practically acid, and Draco shuddered to think of it bubbling its way down to his stomach.

"Haaallgh." His eyes sent an urgent message to Theodore. It said, "This drink actually is poison, send me the antidote quick or I shall die." Theo looked nonplussed.

"Well, you've got to drink it, y'know."

But Draco was at a painful crossroads. He could feel the drink eating away at his mouth, burning the roots of his teeth. It hurt too much to move… he could either spit it out or drink the damn thing but the most comfortable position was to hold it in his mouth—the liquor had burned away the nerves in his mouth, he felt, and now he felt a cold numbness where the drink settled. Theodore frowned then pulled Draco's head back. Red Hat's Old Gigglewater trickled down his throat. It was the Polyjuice all over again. His throat had a second of blessed wetness before being lit aflame by the Gigglewater. Small shards of glass were boring into his neck, he could taste smoke from the fire and blood from the open sores that the acidic drink had opened. Then he coughed, which increased the pain a hundredfold—it also had the nasty side effect of shooting fire into his nose.

"Bloody hell," said Theodore. "I didn't know you'd take it so bad—here's the rest of the Butterbeer. God, your face's all red. Just, er, just drink the rest of that… you'll probably feel better. Oh, don't choke on it! There you go, just drink it… how d'you feel?"

"Terrible," Draco croaked.

"Maybe I ought to, y'know…" Theo mimed throwing it out the window. Draco glared at him. His watery gaze meant one thing: I did it, now you do it too.

"Alright, keep your knickers on. It's probably not that bad—you being new to drinking and all—anyways, here I go."

The expression on Theodore's face almost made this whole ordeal worth it. Draco snorted—it sent the last remnants of the Gigglewater shooting up to his brain—while Theo spat out his mouthful on the floor. By the time they went to sleep, however, Theodore had mastered the art of taking a sip so that you'd think the Gigglewater nothing more than spring water. Draco on the other hand, stuck to the Butterbeer.


	10. Anna Carina

Life was a broomstick ride with highs and lows. Sometimes the wind came on strong, sometimes it rained, and sometimes it was perfectly sunny. But for Draco, it was a slow flight close to the ground. His mother was turning him into a mannequin and as the days dragged on, he was starting to feel like one too. He hadn't flown his Nimbus in a week. He was growing sick of the daily potions and the heat combined with the fancy robes made him feel like a mummy of the Egyptian tombs. There were certainly no more highs in his life but Draco found that as bad as life got, it could always get worse. It was like this in flying as well—it was always easier to fall.

"Carina Avery. How do you like it, darling?"

"I don't."

He gazed at his reflection in his mother's mirror. It winked back at him and smiled. With all the make-up his mother had plastered on his face, he supposed that this new visage could belong to a 'Carina Avery'. It certainly didn't fit Draco Malfoy, whose face was that of a distant memory; a dream-face in which he could only remember a certain proud air about it and none of its blurred features. The more his reflection preened about in the glass, the more he wanted to blast it into little bits and pieces. But he barely had the energy to wash his face in the mornings, let alone hex a mirror.

"Well, your father worked hard to get Avery to agree. Isn't that right, dear?"

"Quite a bit of gold, I'd say." His father coughed. If there was one thing that Draco shared with him, it was his discomfort in seeing his son dressed up as a girl.

"I only wish that she could keep our name. Avery just sounds so…"

"We've been through this, Narcissa. We mustn't hurt Draco's alibi… if he's to return to Hogwarts one day as his true self, well! We wouldn't want this incident tied to his name, now would we?"

"Yes, I know. You've only told me all about your work a hundred times."

"Oh for god's sake—they reverted a piece of his hair, I tell you! It'll work. We just need time."

"One strand, Lucius. One. And it turned to ash in an hour."

"It'll be ready before Draco's fourth year." He shook his hand as if he were getting rid of a persistent horsefly.

"And if it isn't?" She leaned closer to him. "You know how I feel about this 'plan'. There's no shame in being home-schooled. We can still reconsider."

"Oh, Narcissa, please! This is merely a set-back; we can't sacrifice Draco's education for… for this! You were the one to suggest going back to Hogwarts in the first place!"

"Only because you wanted to send her abroad."

Sometimes he felt as if his parents had been swapped for Polyjuiced ministry officials. Since he'd changed into a girl, they'd changed right besides him. They fought, talked about him as if he wasn't there… it was hard to believe that this was the loving couple that had sent him handwritten notes to Hogwarts every week. They were reading off a script unreadable to his eyes.

"Carina is a muggle name," Draco blurted out.

"I'm sorry, darling?"

"It's a muggle name. I've seen you read that muggle book before… the one you hide under the bed."

Narcissa's cheeks flushed; Lucius looked outraged.

"This is what you're teaching our son?" he hissed. "And you wanted to home-school him."

" _Anna-Karenina_ was written by a half-blood," she said. "You've got the pronunciation all wrong, darling. Your name is Ca-ri-na."

"It sounds like a stupid name to me," he muttered.

"It's what I would have named you if you were born a girl." She gazed into the mirror and said, "Turn around."

The back of his head was a more bearable sight. From behind, he could pretend that he was looking at a stranger. Her hair was just brushing the tops of his shoulders; tiny red strands strained to touch them. It almost looked as if it'd been cut by a ruler—Narcissa had gone over the ends with her scissors so meticulously the result was like a drawing. A small bowtie head-band sat neatly on top. It preened in the sunlight; it's yellow fabric petals stretched out to the sky. This stranger's reflection, Draco decided, looked a bit like a mutated rabbit.

"Not a hair out of place." Narcissa nodded. "Back front, if you please."

He hated looking his reflection in the eye. He couldn't pretend it was a stranger any longer. Draco was Carina and Carina was Draco and the two of them were intertwined as one. But if Carina's reflection was his own, why did it have to smile and prance about so much? It was his face the mirror was showing, his face it contorted into the most ridiculous, sappy grins. It even pouted at him, showing off a pair of perfectly painted lips.

"Stop smiling," he said. Then, "Mother, this mirror is rubbish. It won't listen to me at all."

"It's only showing what's best for you. Oh, look! It's even teaching you how to sit properly." Draco remained slumped in his chair; Narcissa sighed and snapped her fingers, causing the mirror to go blank. "I know this is hard for you. But life doesn't wait for anyone… until your father can find a cure, we must make do with what we have. Right?"

"I still don't see why I can't keep my name."

"Draco." That was his father. "Listen to me now. Your father is close, very close to reversing this potion. Until then, you must live under this alibi… you wouldn't want to have your old name sullied by this incident, would you? Of course not. But not to worry—your father has your treatment under wraps… If this was your second year, we'd simply let things go on as they were… but you're entering third year, Draco, and it will soon become apparent to all the, er, extent of your changes. Be wise. You wouldn't want this following you around for the rest of your life… we are simply trying to keep you from shame. Once this is all over, you'll be able to return to your school and your life as if this never happened."

None of it made sense to Draco. His father had never lied to him before—at least not to this extent—and right now, every word sounded as if he was holding a great truth behind them.

"But I don't understand… everyone will know it's me anyway. They've all seen my hair… and my eyes."

"Precisely why your mother instructed you to grow out your hair."

"But—"

"Ginger hair isn't uncommon." Narcissa spoke in a soothing whisper. "And neither are your green eyes. Oh, don't worry. Green is a witch's best friend—it's very traditional, very pure. Not to mention the work your mother did on your face… did you look like a 'Draco Malfoy' to you?"

He had to admit that he hadn't.

"You're growing up darling. Nobody will suspect a thing—how many witches arrive at Hogwarts every year? And what person would take you to be a boy? How outlandish! Just keep your head down… don't tell anybody… and mother will take care of the rest."

"It's not like I can spend all my time locked up in my bedchambers," he said. "Even Crabbe and Goyle could figure it out—I go missing, and a strange girl with my hair-colour and my eyes comes in the exact same year I come out?"

"You needn't worry about Vincent nor Gregory. I doubt you'll be seeing much of them. We've arranged things with Dumbledore."

"I expect I'll be locked up in the dungeons then."

"Not exactly." Narcissa looked amused. "We have it arranged for you to stay in the room next Severus' office. This way, you'll be kept out of the way and he will be able to check in on you in case you feel sick."

"I wouldn't put much stock into his remedies," Lucius said loudly. "He's been neglecting his studies—not the man he used to be, no. I doubt he'd be able to cure a common fever. At any rate, Draco, this year you must stay out of trouble. It was difficult enough to convince Dumbledore about your new accommodations… one more step out of line and you may very well be expelled. I want you to focus on your school-work. No more of this Polyjuice rubbish… I must say, I was very surprised to hear that you even took the potion in the first place. Most foolish of you, very foolish…"

"Your father wanted you to be put into Ravenclaw," Narcissa whispered. "To make things completely inconspicuous. Your headmaster told him that the Sorting Hat didn't like to be disturbed, doubly so during break."

"Ravenclaw?"

"It'd be safer," his father said curtly. "Less chances to mingle with your old class-mates… you'd be up in the tower… and I wouldn't have requested Gryffindor or Hufflepuff for an Avery."

"Hufflepuff's much too common for a pure-blood," Narcissa agreed.

"As it is, the best we can do for now is to let Severus keep an eye on you… if only the headmaster were different, things could be changed but Dumbledore! He doesn't take well to common sense."

"People are going to think I have the pox," Draco grumbled.

"Draco!"

"Not dragon-pox," he said hurriedly, "just the regular one. Anyway, they'll think I'm sick—being locked up next to Professor Snape and all."

"All the better," Narcissa said. "We don't want company, do we, Carina?"

Carina. What a stupid name it was. And what a stupid plan! So what if people found out. So what if they laughed. None would dare do it in front of him and that's what mattered… didn't it? His heart began to thump in his chest—all he had to do was say, "Yes, mother," and yet to do so felt to him as if he had given up on himself. To accept the mantle of "Carina Avery" was to stab himself in the back. After all, words were words and actions were actions—who cared if he called himself a boy if he answered to "Carina Avery", who cared what he thought he was when they could all see for themselves? The mirror had been rendered silent for a while now but Draco could still picture his reflection as clear as day, even draw it on parchment if asked. It's just a name, Draco thought to himself. Just a name. And everyone told lies… if he took this name, it wasn't as if Draco Malfoy the boy was dead nor Carina Avery really alive. She didn't exist, he realized. She was just a costume he had to wear. A human cloak. And costumes always came off at the end of the day.

"No, I suppose not."

His voice trembled with a strange mix of exhilaration, fear, and anger. All at once he felt the full forces of his feminine nature, acknowledged and saw without blinders what he'd turned into. It was almost too much to bear—he felt an inconsolable need to rip off his robes and use the scraps to wipe his face clean until it bled. But he wasn't a baby any longer, that much was clear, and the only other sign of this terrible energy flowing through him were his clenched fists.

"That's good." His mother's voice was gentler from before. There was no firm bite in her tone—it almost pleaded for him to fight back. "Let's go over your story, one more time."

Carina Avery's history was a sordid one, full of twists and broken dreams and what-ifs. Her father was Frederick Avery, a man once accused of being one of the Dark Lord's followers. A man with great magical talent with a penchant for more women than his arms could hold in one night. For him, it was nothing more than simple fun. For her mother, heartbreak and an unwanted child. Carina had grown up hearing stories about her father, about how the rogue had slipped past her mother's fingers by daylight. He was supposedly very good-looking—Draco suspected that this was at the request of the man in question—and although her mother had even managed to see him a few times over the years, he wasn't fit to be a father just yet. At least he didn't seem to like Carina much—he was more focused on her mother. As for her, well, she hated Carina—she'd expected the child to be her lifeline towards Avery and when that wasn't the case, she was stuck with this screaming mess for what seemed to be eternity.

As luck would have it, she wouldn't need to put up with Carina for long—one of life's funny twists saw to that. After her mother's death, Carina stayed at an orphanage for little girls until just last summer, when her father came to pick her up and give her a proper upbringing. When asked about this sudden change of heart, well, he wasn't growing any younger and it was the decent thing to do considering how he was her mother's lover—at least for a night or two. He always wanted kids; he just didn't want the marriage nor the screaming, diaper-changing phase. She was old enough to not being doing that, right? Besides, what was she questioning him for? Surely she didn't want to grow up in that awful institution? Anyway, that was her story and her excuse for not knowing her father in depth… but she had his name and that was that. Also she was sickly—her mother hadn't liked her much, see—so that was why she had to room next to Professor Snape just in case she fainted or something nasty like that. Oh, why she hadn't come to Hogwarts until now? Her mother didn't like her to be apart—something about needing her to be there when Avery came—and she'd been homeschooled.

"But no one will care," Narcissa said. "This is just in case you need it. We've left it open enough that you may make up your own memories, so long as they fit in the outline. You do remember Avery, don't you? Your father took you along on his meeting just last summer."

"You haven't told me my supposed mother's name," he said.

"Oh she was an abusive woman." Narcissa waved her hand dismissively. "Never told you her name. Perhaps it was, let's see…"

"Elenore Jones," his father suggested.

"Yes, something like that. At any rate, it'll never come up. Just keep to yourself and focus on doing well at school—just because you're a girl doesn't mean you can afford to slack on your grades—and everything will take care of itself."

"What about Quidditch?" Draco realized that if he was to be a new person, he'd need to drop everything from his old life.

"You won't be able to play Quidditch, I'm afraid." His father shook his head. "We'll keep your Nimbus at home."

"That's nice," Draco huffed. "I'm to watch the entire team play with the broomsticks I bought them but I can't actually play. What are you going to tell them about me anyway? The real me, I mean."

"Gifts are gifts. As for your name, well, your school friends won't have to know. I suppose that we could concoct a story where you've been sent abroad—understandable, what with the way that fool runs Hogwarts. I believe that's all we need to tell you."

His father left the room with a dissatisfied air.

"Very well, Carina." Narcissa sighed. "You may go to your room."

It took him a second to realize his mother was referring to himself. "I'm not at Hogwarts."

"It'll help if you get used to it, darling."

She rose to her feet and started to leave the room when a sudden thought gripped Draco's mind. If he was to be Carina Avery… what did that mean for when he had to come home? His mother only laughed at his worries.

"This is your home, of course. We're only borrowing Avery's name. And.." She hesitated. "If you ever feel the need to come home, just write to me—not your father—and I'll come get you right away. Hogwarts is just a school, darling. I still remember my old lessons—wouldn't it be nice, to have your mother as your teacher?"

Draco wasn't sure which was worse: going to Hogwarts and pretending as if things were going to get better or staying home and giving up entirely.

* * *

Theodore Nott was more of a human diary than a real friend, Draco realized. He was much too stubborn and free-willed for that; he was a disobedient dog who would sit down and shut up only when threatened to be taken to the pound. However, he was the best confidant Draco could ask for. For one, Theo didn't seem to hang out with anyone else—or at least not to the point where he could be described as anything but a loner—so there were no available ears to tempt him in spilling Draco's secrets. He also had the appropriate reputation for someone so solitary; Draco was sure that no one would believe him even if he did tell. So in spite of his mother's warnings, after a few weeks had passed, he told Theo everything. It felt wonderfully terrifying… the only word he stumbled upon was his false name, 'Carina Avery'.

"Interesting," said Theo. "You better not hang around Daphne—she's too sharp to fall for that."

"Mother said I'm to stay with Professor Snape." Draco shuddered to think of it. He was his favourite professor, true, but he was the one who'd failed to brew his cure in time and at any rate, no one wanted to be that close to their teachers. A vivid dream popped up of Professor Snape in an apron, waking him up with a plate of fried eggs. "It's very off-putting… I hope there's locks on my door. Anyway, you're not to act like you know me when we're at school. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about this… thing."

"Carina is a nice name. Think I have a great-grandmother named that."

"Just don't act like we're friends at Hogwarts, alright?"

Theodore's shoulders drooped slightly. "So what about Hogsmeade?"

"What about Hogsmeade?"

"Your permission form. Y'know, the signature."

"Obviously it had to be Avery's. I believe my father gave him a generous gift for it."

"Money," said Theo sagely. "Avery's always running out of it. He's a bad gambler; my father always says so. Gotta say though, you must've inherited your looks from your, er, mother. Avery looks a bit like a rat."

"I'd rather Avery than this. I look like a," Draco gestured about, "a hussy." The ribbon on his head squeaked in outrage. When Draco didn't respond, it tightened about his head, pulling free a few strands of hair.

"Ouch! You stupid thing, that hurt!" It resisted every effort of his to rip it free; Theo offered a hand but Draco waved him away. "Fine! I'm sorry, alright?" The ribbon abated its crusade to squeeze his head off.

"Weird thing to wear," Theo commented. He flicked a leaf off his lap.

"Mother says it's for training my manners. I think it's another one of her antiques. It's barbaric, really."

"If that's barbaric," Theo said as he reached out for a handful of Draco's hair, "then what's… this!"

"Ouch! I'm going to kill you, I swear!" The ribbon tied itself into knots while shrieking; Draco chased Theo around the tree with his wand in his hand. He attempted to jinx Theo's legs but the trunk was too wide for him to take clear aim before his friend disappeared around the corner. A piece of bark peeled off and erupted into tiny splinters as his spell missed—this seemed to be the last straw for the ribbon, for it slithered down to his neck and began to strangle him until he sat back on the grass.

"I guess little ladies aren't supposed to duel, eh?" Theo poked his head out cautiously.

"It-wasn't-a-duel," Draco said, breathing heavily for air. He jammed his wand back into his robes with disgust. "You ran."

"That's how you win." Theo sat back down besides him. He pat him on the back and watched as the ribbon climbed back up Draco's head, wiping his forehead on the way.

"That's how you win if you stink at dueling."

He brushed off his robes.

"I don't see why father and mother are making such a big deal out of this though. I don't see why anybody would care about it if it gets cured in the end. How many people have accidents to begin with? It's not exactly like I'm the first person to go through this."

"I dunno—you're the one always banging on about St. Mungo's lunatics and all. D'you know what I think?"

"Obviously not."

"Probably just taking precautions in case it's permanent is all."

Draco's heart leapt to his throat.

"Don't say that... why would you say that?"

"I'm just thinking!"

"My father said he's close with a cure so stop it." His heartbeat wasn't slowing. "It couldn't come soon enough. Some days, I just want to fly out of here and leave for the moon. It's about the only thing that helps me forget things. That and sleeping... but mother doesn't like it when I sleep in too often."

"Ah… I wouldn't be too eager to fly away just yet. Didn't you hear the news? Or is this just your big head acting up again?"

"I hear a lot of 'news', you know. My father tells me a lot of things."

"It's about a relative of yours. Very famous."

"What?" He furrowed his brow, thinking. His father had no siblings… his grandparents were dead… his mother did have a few cousins but none of them were particularly famous—their names, perhaps, but not the individuals. And besides, they were all locked up in Azkaban so unless the news was that one of them had been Kissed, well… perhaps that was it but why would Theo be so eager to talk about a Kissed relative of his?

"Blimey, you're slow." Theo hesitated a few times before leaning in and whispering into his ear, "It's Sirius Black. He escaped. Just this morning, I think, they found his cell. Empty."

"Sirius Black escaped?"

"It's big news. I'm surprised you didn't know already—I suppose you're too busy getting your make-up done—hey, stop, I'm just joking! Anyway, it's all over the ministry right now. They're keeping it quiet for a bit, making sure that they've got no skin in this race, making sure that they didn't do nothing "bad" like leave a door unlocked or anything like that. 'Spect it'll be all over the Prophet tomorrow." He paused, donned a crooked grin and added, "It's very good make-up, by the way. I've seen you like this 'bout a hundred times and I still forget you're 'Draco'—sorry, is it Carina now?"

But Draco wasn't about to be goaded in such an easy manner, especially not when a man like Sirius Black was free.

"How did he escape?"

"Dunno. Ask me, he must've had someone helping him from the outside."

"I suppose it's one of You-Know-Who's supporters…"

"I guess. But that's all done with now, with Harry Potter and all."

"Potter!" Draco laughed. "Even I could beat Potter. Do you remember that duelling club, with Professor Snape and that sleaze Lockhart?"

"Nah, I didn't go." Theo shrugged. "Too busy studying in the library."

"Well, I beat him," Draco said proudly. "In terms of pure magic, I beat him. Potter cheated his way out of it—I can't believe he's a Parselmouth. He's not even in Slytherin…"

"Oh yeah, real lucky. Must be nice asking snakes what they like to eat and why it's mouse."

"Must you really take the piss out of everything?"

Theo hissed in reply. Before Draco could respond, however, he quickly added a, "So Sirius Black is your mother's cousin, right?"

"I suppose. Mother doesn't really talk about him much—or any of her other cousins."

"A serial killer in the family." Theo whistled. "Don't worry. I'm sure they'll catch him soon. He doesn't even have a wand…"

"Yes, but he'll have been helped by an outsider. So it's not out of the question, is it?"

"I wonder why they only freed Black… there's loads of You-Know-Who supporters in Azkaban."

"As if the guards would just let him free everyone. Honestly!" Draco didn't know why but he was sure that whoever had helped Black had to have been a man.

"Oh yeah… maybe the cells are in alphabetical order."

"So he only had time to grab Black before disapparating. They could be anywhere by now."

"Nah, they'll be around here."

"What?"

"Think about it. You-Know-Who gets defeated by Harry Potter. All his supporters get locked up… first thing they do when they get out—it's not like they're looking for a nice vacation in Australia. I mean, it's obvious!"

"I see what you mean. Well in that case, I suppose Black has my full support. He probably wouldn't even need a wand to kill Potter." The ribbon twitched.

"I wouldn't get your hopes up. The Aurors are probably guarding him already."

"Figures. I can't rely on anybody—not even my serial killer uncle."

"He's your first cousin once-removed actually."

Draco let out a disgusted sigh and threw his hands up in the air. The ribbon gave him a cautionary tweak; he folded his hands back into his lap.

* * *

The sky was starting to darken; clouds came in like stage curtains, hiding the stars getting dressed behind their cotton backs. An impatient crowd up above began to stomp their feet; a deep rumbling echoed through the air. Theo looked up with some alarm and pulled out his wand. But Draco was ready for the rain. It would help cleanse his painted face and bring some much-needed normalcy to his life. Not to mention his robes would be spotted with dirt and water and grass-stains—he found pleasure in this small rebellion of his, despite the fact that his mother would undoubtedly scream at him. He was sick of it. He wanted his old family back, the one that had at least the common courtesy to fight when he was away, not home. Lately, everything seemed tailor-made to incur his wrath—yet he was always too tired to do anything about it but imagining himself yelling.

"I don't think it's going to rain, actually." Theo held out his hand, frowning all the while. No raindrops graced his presence.

"It doesn't matter at all."

"Won't your mother be upset when you ruin your robes, Carina?"

"Laugh all you want. Go ahead—I don't care. I don't."

"… Don't tell me you're going to cry?"

"I'm not," he said, even as a fat little mouse of a teardrop rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away—now he wished it was indeed raining after all.

"Ah… I'm not good with stuff like this… think of something happy, I guess. Sirius Black killing Harry Potter. Winning the Quidditch Cup—oh, bugger. That's done it—er, I dunno. The Weasleys dying in a house-fire. Falmouth Falcons top of the league. Oh, stop crying!"

"I'm said I'm not c-crying." He tried his hardest to stifle his sobbing which only ended up with him choking on his own saliva. For what it was worth, Theo turned away from this indignity but not before rolling his eyes.

"Girls always cry over nothing," he said.

"I. Am. Not. A. Girl," he snarled. It didn't do much for his voice—it sounded more like a kitten than a lion. It was hard to explain what he was feeling entirely… sometimes he just broke out in tears for no reason, at other times for ridiculous reasons. Just last night, he'd thought of Professor Snape's sleeping habits and what if he had none and what if he brewed potions all night and if that would mean he'd never be able to have a good night's sleep again and for some unknown reason, had burst into tears. Not to mention how irritable he got over everybody calling him a girl and 'Carina' and 'Avery', even though it was the truth… it was no wonder people called facts harsh and cold. He didn't know why being a girl bothered him so much… after all, everyone his age had already had discussed the perennial if you were a boy or girl for a day, what would you do? question to death. Imagining about it was one thing, he discovered. The experience was quite something else.

"Aw, don't wipe your nose there!"

"I have a dozen more just like it," Draco snapped.

"Your make-up's all runny. You look like one of those witches in those daytime soaps. In a good way!"

"There is no good way."

"At least you stopped crying." He patted him on the arm. "Don't worry. Even if you're a lot, er, different now, you're still just as mean as ever."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"Well I'm not going to kiss your feet anytime soon so… this is the best ya get."

"I hope Sirius Black's angry with my mother. Then he can come here and kill all of us."

He wasn't aware of being punched at first. The pain came after, when he looked into Theo's eyes and realized that it was no accident—he'd meant to hit him, and hard. It started off as a small pin-prick on his cheek, then he gasped as the fire began to spread deep into his bones. There was a dull throbbing sensation in his cheek-bone, and his beating heart only served to fuel the heat he felt on his face. This was the final straw for his poor ribbon; it ripped itself to pieces but not before giving Draco's hair one good yank.

"There, now you stopped crying."

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

"No, what the hell's wrong with you! You're always like this, always lashing out at everybody and acting like you're all high and mighty and above everyone else… treating your friends like dirt…"

"Don't go all half-cocked on me like I'm talking about your dead mum. I said I wished for that lunatic to kill my parents, not yours."

"You just don't get it, do you?"

"Sensitive little baby you are! You talk about me being a girl all the time and you don't see me rushing off to punch you in the face."

"No, you only try to hex me to death."

"Well I wouldn't if you didn't taunt me in the first place," he spat. "A real lunatic you turned out to be. See, maybe that's why Sirius Black escaped—he must've been making an opening for you!"

They were like two stray cats fighting over a piece of haddock. Draco wasn't sure if he was on top of Theo or underneath him—they rolled over and over, each seeking the nearest vulnerable place to hurt before being attacked in return and doubling over. In the midst of being jabbed in the ribs, Draco wondered what his mother would say about this barbaric display of muggle-dueling, not to mention how he'd ruined yet another robe. His wand was just out of reach, but Theo's ear wasn't. He pulled on it hard, eliciting a loud shriek, before rolling on top of him again. There was no time to savour this small victory, for Theo punched him in the chest and regained his brief status as the winner of the scrap.

"Give up?"

"Let go of my hair."

"I will if you give up."

"Ouch! You're going to pull it out… Fine, I give up already, god!"

Draco fell back, rubbing his head. He didn't know how Theo felt but to him, the fight was slightly cathartic. He still felt that Theo was a sensitive, overreacting, little baby but at the end of the day—boys fought out their problems. He looked down at his robes, where little seams he didn't even know existed were coming apart. Grass stains ran deep in streaks of green, yellow, and brown on the baby-blue fabric.

"What are you smiling about?" Theo sniffed. "You lost."

"If we duelled proper, I'd win."

He gathered up the shredded ribbon in his hand. It let out a whisper of a squeak; Draco tossed the remains into the air. They were carried through the wind and settled in the grass like a talking flower garden.

"Your cheek doesn't hurt too much, does it? 'Cause—"

"I'm more worried about my clothes. Mother will be," he paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Well, I suppose she'll be most disappointed with my behaviour."

"Yeah, and she'll put on a sad face and that'll be the end of it. Maybe that's why you're so…" He gestured about as if he was searching for the right words with his hands. "Bratty."

"Just because my mother doesn't practise corporal punishment…" Draco stretched. "She's always snapping at me now."

"Oh no, she snaps at you?"

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"Yeah, whatever."

The mood had soured. Why couldn't Theo just let things be? This was why all the Gryffindors were so infuriating: headstrong and stubborn and taking things too close to heart all the time.

"I'm going to bed," he said.

"Yeah."

When he'd gotten changed—and chastised greatly by his mother, as predicted—and tucked into bed, the moonlight revealed Theo still sitting against the tree. From his bedroom window, it was like a little scene out of a story-book.


	11. Back in Black A Runaway

The way he felt was this: indecisive. Some days he was filled with great energy—enough to overload the senses until the only way he could cope was to ironically lay down and convince himself to go to sleep, lest he do some terrible damage to himself. Rainy days brought about an inexplicable bout of torpor—his mother had thought him dead, so still he was under the blankets. There was something he knew he needed to do, something that both his body and mind yearned for. This desire to do things that he knew nothing of consumed his every thought until he was both a fidgeting and paradoxically, frozen mess. He couldn't even make up his mind about his clothes, for his new robes enhanced the parts he hated most about himself while his old ones—there were two that his mother hadn't thrown out—reminded him of what was and what could have been. Even the fact that Theo had been truthful about Sirius Black—the Prophet had been plastered with the man's face—barely registered on his mind.

"Sleeping again?" His mother sighed. "You shouldn't put your head underneath the covers."

Draco only grunted in reply. His mother took it as agreement and pulled the sheets down to his shoulders.

"Your face is all red." She placed a hand on his forehead. "Yes, it's burning up."

"Stop touching me, woman."

"D—Carina! Where are your manners?"

"Oh, up your arse—I don't know, leave me alone. Go away."

"And you were doing so well." Draco could hear her pursed lips in her tone. "We even decided that the ribbon was unneeded, remember?"

"It ripped itself up and you didn't have a replacement."

"Oh, Carina. I know this is hard for you."

After weeks of hearing the tired old speech from his parents, Draco hated this false pity the most. Teachers used this plastic flattery well—it'd never been applicable for himself, of course—and he'd heard it many times over whenever Crabbe and Goyle failed yet another assignment. "You're very bright boys but you just don't apply yourself," is what they said. Well, that might work on them but Draco understood the underlying message beneath their seemingly benevolent tones: you stupid little fuckers, how could you fail this assignment when we've been over the material in class at least ten times? Likewise, what his mother was really saying was: stop moping about, just shut up and go along with this stupid charade otherwise you're making me feel bad.

How would they know how difficult this was for him if he didn't even understand it himself? He couldn't explain why being a girl was anathema to his soul beyond simple superficial reasons like: I hate my growing breasts, I hate how natural make-up looks on me, I hate how Theo's fingers are thicker than mine, I hate feeling my hair brush against my neck, I hate hearing my voice, and so on and so forth. Were they that superficial? Draco couldn't decide… they seemed like valid reasons to him but he was struggling to fit all his complaints into one strong platitude. As of right now, they were all individual brittle sticks of thought—he needed something more binding, more explicit and more elaborate beyond: I hate being a girl.

He didn't expect his parents to understand but this wasn't for them—this was for him. Was it even natural to hate this as much as he did? He'd read that some fish in the wild changed sexes as wind blew… Theo's words echoed in his head, 'Probably just taking precautions in case it's permanent is all.' Draco hadn't admitted it then but it was as if Theo had plucked those very thoughts from his own head. The way everyone carried on around him, the way his father couldn't look him in the eye, the way his mother insisted on calling him 'Carina' but never 'Carina Avery'… it was all very suspicious and if it really were permanent, he wished that they would just come out with it now. That way, he could focus on altering his mind to be more like that of the fish—free-flowing and uncaring whether they had bows or ties.

"It'll be alright in the end. You'll see. Who knows? In a year, you might even look back on this moment and laugh…"

"I'm going flying for a bit." He stood up suddenly and glared at her, daring her to challenge him.

"Of course! Just remember to come in before supper."

He hated how pitiable his mother's voice was. It felt as if she was asking for him to abuse her, to yell at her and pull at her ears. That was the trouble with mothers—they were always so noble in the face of their childrens' mistakes. Laughably self-sacrificial lambs—didn't they understand that the only thing worse than being yelled at for something you didn't do was to take responsibility for things they never did? Draco almost wanted her to scold him like father did, to yell, "You little swine, how dare you be so insolent, I'll break your broom over my knee and then your backside."

He ran out the hall before she could say another word.

* * *

He met his father just before the main doors. He looked haggard for once, his usual prim and proper self was showing signs of stuffing being poked through his seams.

"Going out today, Dra—ah, Carina?"

So even his father had boarded the Carina Avery Express, though maybe he hadn't exactly gotten a first-class ticket. He dug his fingers into his Nimbus and his eyes glared out underneath his hat—his wrinkled old hat, mind, not the fancifully ridiculous ones his mother had bought. He had never hated his father before but now… there was a pathetic air about him. The way he wore his hair, for example. Well-brushed, yes, but the entire effect was ruined by the dinky little hair-tie he wore. The way he bended to his mother's will. The way how he still hadn't been able to acquire another house-elf, forcing Narcissa to resort to buying home-care spell books. Every frustration he'd felt, he overlaid onto his father. Even now, what help was he giving?

"What do you care?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said, what do you care?" The first sentence had been hastily blurted out, tinged with a little fear. Upon seeing how taken aback his father was, Draco gained a bit of reckless courage more befitting Potter than himself.

"I care a great deal." His voice was softer than usual.

"Right. I'm so glad that you care—big deal it's done so far."

"You know these things take ti—"

"Oh yeah, that's easy for you to say. You're not the one with fucking tits," he spat, "and you're not the one bleeding out their… thing and you're not the one with green eyes or this stupid hairstyle or these robes. These robes! And these stupid boots and gloves and, and…"

If his father had looked shocked for his vulgarity, he was looking just as guilty as Draco carried on with his rant. He reached out a tentative hand but Draco pushed it away fiercely.

"You're supposed to be my father and you're supposed to fix things but all you've been doing is combing your hair and drinking whisky in your study! It's been months since this happened and all you can do is change one little strand of my hair? So much for your connections at St. Mungo's, so much for Professor Snape—none of you know anything about potions, apparently, because it takes you months to do anything! Oh, I need mandrakes, I need moonlight, I need pig ears strained in dragon-breath pepper-barreled gin! Always an excuse! And you're supposed to be smart and you always tell me about all the people in your pocket but you must be giving me lint or maybe—is this what you want? Is this," he pulled at his robes, "what you want, you want me to live like this, that's why you came up with this half-baked idea with this idiot Avery! You and mother just really want a daughter, that must be it or you must be perverts making up this cock-and-bull history about my 'handsome' father Avery; how do you even expect me to carry out this idiot plan?"

"Enough! I understand that you're upset but this level of—"

"Of what? Of what? Yeah, you won't answer—you'll probably need another glass of whatever it is you're drinking up there after this, won't you? Acting like you're all sophisticated with your sighing and 'oh, this is a beauty's," he half-screamed, "and guess what? I drank that shitty alcohol with Theodore and it tasted bloody awful, don't know what you're on about—anyway, I'm going flying and you can't stop me."

He kicked off in the house, something his mother had expressively discouraged, and dodged his father's grasping hands. He waved his wand at the doors—they blasted open, slightly damaging the hinges—and he was off. He could hear a, "Draco!" but it was far too late for that now. It was very cathartic to have screamed at his father like that and even the little worm of doubt was squashed under the heavy winds he flew into. There was something queer about the whole thing and soon enough, his little giggle had turned into a hysterical whooping before he doubled over his broom. He couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying or both or neither—either way, his ribs hurt from the noise he was making. He flew on and on, watching the perfectly maintained grass below him devolve into small dirt paths and yellowed grass to fenced in yards and little roads to the great muggle cities of wherever.

* * *

It was dark out and Draco was lost. The moonlight was very dim and blocked by wet clouds, making it hard to make out where he was flying—luckily, it also had the effect of hiding him from any stargazing muggles. There was nothing for it, he would have to descend and walk on foot until he found a sign or a landmark that he recognized. Even in his frenzied state, Draco knew that it would be bad news if a muggle witnessed his magical flight.

He chose a small alley to touch down in. Despite how quiet everything was, he wasn't scared. He thought of how Theo's father had supposedly boasted about beating twenty muggles with one hand—surely, Draco could take at least half that amount. He walked aimlessly down the path—two muggles stared curiously at him and pointed. One of them called out, "What's that you're wearing?"

"Don't talk to me," he snarled. "I wouldn't be caught dead in these filthy mudblood streets if I could help it."

They laughed.

"Funny little thing, isn't she?"

"It's that goth shite. I mean, just lookit her."

"My sister was into that a bit."

"Really?"

"Yeah, 'bout a year or so. Hey, how old are you anyway? Shouldn't be out so late."

He ducked into another street, far away from the two muggles. They'd actually laughed at him… well, at least somebody else found his clothes laughable—though it wasn't as if those muggles had been the pinnacle of fashion either. Besides, these were expensive and even though Draco hated them… it was somewhat irritating to hear a muggle of all things mouth off about them.

There was a small padding noise behind him but more importantly, a presence that made his hair stand up. He slowly turned around to see an enormous black dog in his path. It reminded him of Fang only that this dog seemed almost rabid in its gaze. It looked more a wolf than a dog and to make matters worse, its mouth was drooling. Draco could see its ribs stick out even with its dark, wiry hide—rather like a boar, but thicker. It sniffed at the air, looked him over from head to toe, and growled. For some reason, Draco was sure that it'd actually focused on his broomstick.

"Go away. Shoo."

It padded ever closer.

"I said, go away!"

That did it. With a soundless howl, it set upon him and bit at his left ankle. Draco tumbled over screaming; there was a loud crack as his broomstick broke in two. It wasn't the pain that made him fall over—it was far too early for him to feel anything yet—it was the shock of being attacked. The dog barked loudly then let go. It circled around Draco's fallen body, sniffing at the fallen hat before pawing around his robes for something. It gave his body just enough time to realize that it'd been bitten, and now a seizing, fiery pain began to burn at his ankle. A horrifying thought flashed through his mind—this dog was searching. Almost as if it were human. It was probably looking for food, he thought… but he didn't carry anything in his robes—they didn't have the pockets to hold anything like sausages for instance—and if the dog found nothing soon, well, humans were still made of meat, weren't they?

"I-I don't have any food," he whispered. "But I can get some for you—god, stop, please!"

It'd bitten at his sides, ripping away both fabric and flesh, before whining in disappointment.

"You're killing me," he gasped. Blood was so red. "Help! Please, anybody!"

Even the muggles would have been a welcome sight. Perhaps the dog could smell them on the wind, for it grabbed hold of his leg before dragging him around the corner and into an alley. His broomstick clattered uselessly behind him; his hat drifted off into the wind—mocking him in its escape. It was all very silly, he realized. It was silly how much he wanted to live. Wasn't it just last week when he'd wanted Sirius Black to kill him? And now that a dog was doing it, he was thrashing about like he had some great purpose to look forwards to? It wasn't like surviving the dog would change anything—perhaps it'd be better to let it use him as a chew-toy. A sharp jolt of pain jerked him out of his thoughts—it was gnawing on his thighs now.

No.

He wouldn't die here—not to a dog. Even if he was a girl, he was still a wizard and no wizard he'd heard of had ever died from such a mundane, muggle dog. He wasn't going to be the first, not if he could help it. His wand slipped out from his sleeve pocket and into his hand. The dog froze, almost as if in anticipation.

"Stay back, you mutt!" He struggled to his feet, only to fall on his back. Draco settled for sitting back against the alley wall. It was wet.

"I warn you." He brandished his weapon at the dog's nose. "I'll kill you, you mangy thing."

It was strange how the beast seemed to understand. It backed off, growling all the while, but it did not bite. For all its posturing, arched back and bared teeth and all, it remained at bay. It barked loudly as if to say, "Bugger your wand," but it did not move. This filled Draco with whatever bravado he had left and now he was the one on the hunt, but only momentarily.

"That's right, back off."

There was a moment's hesitation and then, in a blink of an eye, the dog was a man. Sirius Black. In the face of this new danger, Draco's brain overloaded and shut down. He froze; this second was all Black needed.

"Wand," he grunted, his breath harsh on the tongue. He scrabbled at Draco's clenched fingers; his knee was on his chest, pinning him down. "Your wand, stupid girl. Wand! Give it to me!"

Despite his newfound conviction to live, with Sirius Black on top of him, Draco could do nothing but lay still. His heart had long since exploded and dispersed throughout his entire body, for what else could explain the thumping he felt from his toes to the very depths of his brain? It stopped him from thinking; it would interrupt every word with a loud BA-DUM, blocking his train of thought from ever embarking from the station. _Sirius_ —BA-DUM— _Sirius Black_ —BA-DUM— _Sirius_ —He could barely recognize the hand being bashed against the wall as his own.

"I'll kill you if I have to, now GIVE ME YOUR WAND!"

There was a vague cracking noise, a yelp of excitement, and Sirius Black claimed the wand from Draco's broken hand. He wasn't sure yet if it had been the fingers he'd smashed or the wrist—either way, he watched helplessly as Black almost cried with glee. A stray thought escaped the pounding blood in his head—now that Sirius Black had his wand, would he die as well? He didn't recall how many people Black had killed but to a serial killer such as himself, what was one more life, especially that of a defenceless teenager? He hoped that it'd be over quick… painlessly didn't seem like an option, not with a madman like Black.

"Wait… wait… wait," Black murmured. His wild eyes bulged; his filthy hair hung about his shoulders like he'd skinned his dog form for a wig. He really was a lunatic in every sense of the word; his jerky movements shortened Draco's breath—it seemed to him a coin-flip whether Black would take a bite out of his neck or speak in that hoarse voice of his whenever he opened his mouth.

"I knew you were a witch," he said. "With those robes… that broomstick... knew you were a witch… a witch."

"Nnnn." His tongue was thick and heavy, suffocating his words. "N-no."

"It was stupid of you to be out this late. Alone… you're a witch… and I've your wand now… I suppose they haven't told anyone yet otherwise you wouldn't be out here… alone."

"I-I don't know who you are. Please."

"No?" Black pulled him close and stared hungrily into his eyes. "No… you do. I can tell—I knew it as soon as I transformed. You know who I am."

"Don't k-kill me!"

"Kill you?" He laughed. "A memory charm perhaps… you're not the one that needs killing, no…"

He petered off into a thoughtful expression that to Draco, looked like someone deciding if they wanted a chicken leg or breast than any philosopher. He was mumbling under his breath again—his mouth moved under his wiry black hair wordlessly. Draco wondered if Black was chewing on bits of him that'd come off during the dog attack. Then his mind wandered off into morbid areas, like: I wonder what I taste like… does he have a dog's tongue or a human's… he must have some of my blood in his mouth.

"You're young… I'd bet anything you go to Hogwarts."

"I'm not friends with Harry Potter! Please!"

"Harry?" A dark amusement lifted his lips. "You—ha! —you think I'm after Harry? You think I want to kill Harry?"

"I don't—I don't know, please! I don't know anything—"

"I WOULD DIE BEFORE I HURT HARRY! I WOULD DIE BEFORE I LAID A FINGER ON HIM!"

Spittle rained on Draco's face. He whimpered as Black shook him roughly, banging his head into the brick wall three times. This was too much, he thought. Too much. The pain in his left ankle, his broken hand shooting pain up his shoulder, and now his head being smashed against the wall—if Sirius Black wanted to kill him, why on earth did he have to do it the muggle way? And he really was a lunatic… he wasn't fooling anybody, Theo had said that Black was a You-Know-Who supporter so what was with this sudden change of heart? He doesn't want to blow his cover, a small voice told him. But what cover was there to begin with? Black was known criminal—even Potter would know about him.

"Just kill me," he whispered. "I don't—just kill me, please. It hurts."

"I told you I'm not going to kill you, idiot. Look at me—pull your head up and LOOK AT ME! Don't jump—I'm not going to hurt you if you listen to what I say. Now… do you go to Hogwarts?"

"Yes!"

"Now we're getting somewhere. Do you know the Weasleys?"

"O-of course."

"One of them has a rat… which one?"

"It's that b-boy—"

"Which boy? Which house? Give me HIS NAME!"

"RONALD WEASLEY! HE'S MY A-AGE! GRYFFINDOR!"

"Alright… alright. I can work with this," he muttered. "You're coming with me. I can use you."

"What?"

"You're losing blood," he said curtly. His voice was shaking, trembling as if he was just holding himself back from shouting again. "I can't heal you here. Not with the Trace… you'll have to follow me. Unless you want to die here."

"You're not going to k-kill me?"

"Keep up with the questions and I will. Now, get up. Muggles might be around—I'm sorry for all the shouting. I didn't bite you too hard, get up! Now! Good. Steady yourself… I'll be my furry self soon but don't you dare even think of running away—you think I won't be able to kill you just because you're a kid? Don't test me—no, your wand, I'll be keeping for now. Don't worry; I can be very gentle when I want. Now, follow me. It's only a short while away."

If Draco blinked, he would have missed the transformation. The wand clattered to the floor but before he could even look at it, Black picked it up with his mouth. His tail wagged and he began to pad out of the alleyway. Draco followed suit; his hand clutched around his side. Now that the adrenaline was ebbing away, the pain was replacing the terror he'd felt in a throbbing, burning sting. A few Asian men looked curiously upon them as they passed—Sirius Black's presence was more than enough to deter them.

"You need help with that dog?"

One sharp look from Black was all that was needed for Draco to utter a quick, "No."

It was pitch-black when they arrived at wherever Black was leading them. Draco had held on tightly to the dog's tail for the last minutes of the trip. He wondered if his wand would be scratched by Black's canine teeth. They crept up the stairs to what seemed an abandoned house, Sirius Black became a man once more, and with a welcoming creak, escorted him into what he called, "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."


	12. A Black Promise

This was no house—it was a mausoleum. The very walls smelled of rot; carpets and curtains alike had been eaten away with time, their frayed ends coated in dust. It was as if a volcano had erupted within the house and each footprint left their mark on the cloudy floor. Through the cobwebs concealing their faces, portraits of previous Black name-holders peered at them. Their tongues had been rendered senseless long ago but the malice in their eyes was loud and clear—they did not take lightly to intruders. A lone candle flickered on the chandelier, casting everything in a shadowy dance. Draco paused; his legs were reluctant to go on in the dark. Sirius Black bumped into him with a quiet curse, then:

"Keep moving."

"It's dark."

"There's a candle. Aren't you a little too old to be scared of the dark?"

"S-something's there!"

"Quiet." He clamped a hand over Draco's mouth. It tasted like dirt. With the other hand, he pointed the wand down the hallway. A faint light emanated from the tip, revealing what at first seemed to be a goblin. "You're alive, are you?"

"The disgraced son returns," the thing muttered. "And with another filthy mudblood in his arms. Broken out of Azkaban… a murderer, a disgrace to his name… My poor mistress, if she could see this abominable sight with her own eyes, oh how she'd wail, yes… Master wishes to turn this home into a pigsty, stock it full of mudbloods and blood-traitors, but Kreacher won't let Master, no—"

"I'm not a mudblood!" Draco wrenched Black's hand away.

"MUDBLOODS!"

A moth-ridden curtain burst open, revealing a screaming woman within. Draco jumped back, Kreacher bowed low, and Sirius Black sighed. The dust that the portrait had eddied up flew into Draco's mouth and made him choke.

"Filthy half-bred children, a blight on our world, kill them, burn them, stains of dishonour!"

As if on cue, the remaining portraits also began to scream—but this time, it was a incoherent roar. They were practically shaking their frames, scratching at the paint, and for a moment, Draco was sure that they'd be able to claw their way out and into the hall. It sounded like a Quidditch match between two heated rivals. The old woman, who seemed like their ringleader, was the loudest of them all. She was shaking from exertion, her eyes tearing up with rage. Her hands snatched at Draco's face, trying to rip away at his eyes, and then she saw Sirius Black.

"INGRATE!"

Her ensuing anger was the catalyst for Black's outburst, for he immediately seized the curtains and began pulling on them, trying to cover the portrait up. Kreacher hobbled back to his feet and began to push on Black's legs while croaking, "No, no, no!" With one kick, the house-elf went flying. He was swallowed up by the shadows. Draco almost laughed but one look at the surrounding portraits on the walls soon shut him up. They too seemed to hold Black's assault as a personal grudge against them, for the howling grew even louder until Draco had to stuff his fingers in his ears—one of them, at least. The other hand was too broken to do anything. It was hard to believe that this place had ever been habitable—this was a mad-house, an asylum.

"There!" With the leader extinguished, the hall went silent. The portraits went back to their resentful glaring. There was a rustle beneath the curtains but the old woman did not come out. Sirius Black took a firm grip on Draco's arm and dragged him the rest of the way out of the hall and into what seemed to be a dining room. There was a table there at least, though it was missing four legs out of its ten.

"Sit on that chair," he commanded.

"Y-you said you weren't going to kill me, remember!"

"Just shut up and sit down. You've caused enough trouble for tonight."

"Incarcerous." Ropes shot out the wand, and Draco was trussed like a turkey to his seat. They dug in tightly, opening up a new slew of cuts.

"No! But you said—"

"SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!" He truly was unhinged… but perhaps he recognized the fear in Draco's eyes, for his next words were much quieter. "I-I'm only going to look for something… some rags, maybe, to tie up those wounds. There might be some potions in the basement… I just need you to stay put, alright? I haven't been in this house for… years. If there's something—or someone—in here, I don't need you slowing me down. Understand?"

"Y-you have my wand," he gasped. "Don't you know any healing spells?"

"I haven't practised magic in twelve years. Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually wish to kill everybody… now, stay put. The ropes aren't too tight, I hope."

"I'm bleeding!"

"Only a little." A hint of a smile danced around his lips then disappeared. "You'll be alright. I promise… Kreacher!"

There was a loud crack and the dirty little house-elf from before appeared before their eyes. It hesitated before bowing deeply—if a bit stiffly.

"Enough of that." Black grabbed it by the arm and lifted it onto his feet. Perhaps he'd misjudged his strength, for the elf flew a foot in the air before landing on its back. Draco let out a nervous giggle; Black cursed.

"Master likes his little games, Master likes to abuse poor Kreacher, oh yes he does, the filthy traitor that he is—"

"One more word out of you and I'll have you join your mother on a plaque!" He began to walk out the room. "Watch the girl. Stop her from escaping. If she faints, tell me immediately. Oh, and… don't talk to her."

* * *

Aside from the occasional loud thumping from somewhere deep in the house, there was no sign of Sirius Black. How long had it been since he'd left him here? Draco tried rocking the chair experimentally once; Kreacher, despite his outward hatred towards Black, had been on him in less than a second. He was punished by the ropes being pulled even tighter and now, it hurt to draw breath. He wasn't even sure if he could exhale properly; he sat there in the dark panting. It was cold… he suspected it wasn't from the room—Kreacher wore the elf equivalent of a fig leaf and he didn't seem bothered—but from his own body. This was a cold from within, an icy chill that replaced the blood leaving his wounds.

"Kreacher… are you listening? It's too tight."

"Master instructed Kreacher not to speak to the mudblood, as if he would stay in her vile presence willingly; but here she is, speaking her filthy words towards Kreacher. Kreacher will not hear her… oh, the cleaning Kreacher must do, to rid the chair of her stink… Kreacher will do his best but he must not burn the chair, oh what would his mistress think to have a mudblood seated at the dining table?"

"I told you, I'm not a mudblood." He gasped for breath; his head slumped downwards—this small action almost caused him to blackout. His vision was all spotty and although Kreacher was undoubtedly saying something in return, he could not hear it over the buzz in his ears.

"My name is… Avery, you wretched vermin thing. Now, the ropes… Kreacher, the ropes!"

"The mudblood calls Kreacher vermin, yes she does… Kreacher must look at the mudblood for Master told him to but he will not tolerate any more of her foolish speech… the mudblood denies her disgusting stock but Kreacher can see she is made of base material… Kreacher can smell her revolting stench… No Avery would spawn such a filthy child, Kreacher wonders from where she stole her robes, the brat has ruined them… undoubtedly with my blood-traitor Master, Kreacher did not know how far he would debase himself, oh how my mistress would weep to hear that her own genealogy would dare taint itself with such dirty blood; Kreacher should have dropped the chandelier on Master's head years ago."

This was the house-elf his mother had talked so highly about? This was the loyal Kreacher? Proud and diligent Kreacher? The one who made the best lemon tarts? Draco glared at him through squinted eyes. At least Dobby had been subservient until the day he snapped. Dobby had poked his own eyes until they were bloodshot, just for Draco's amusement. He'd wanted to see how far the disgusting little creature would go, to see if it had any shred of self-preservation left. But this thing wasn't just insubordinate—Kreacher wanted to kill him. He was sure of it. The ropes bit deep into his flesh and they were stained a dark red—almost black in the light. His head dipped ever lower… his eyes closed just as a wicked grin appeared on Kreacher's face. It just wasn't fair, he thought. To be captured by Sirius Black, only to be murdered by a bloody house-elf.

* * *

He was floating in a black nothing. Was it water? It must have been, for humans couldn't fly without brooms… but then again, he didn't feel very wet. And he could breath freely… perhaps it was a weightless, texture-free grass of some kind. Or maybe he'd been eaten up by a dragon, a gigantic one, and he wasn't floating but falling down its throat and soon enough, he'd land in a belly full of fire. Dragons liked to eat their meat cooked to the point of it being ash… steak-flavoured charcoal, they called it. Presently, he became aware of a cold wetness and he woke up. There was nothing quite like it, he decided. Nothing like being doted on by a serial killer… like a butcher feeding a lamb.

"You're awake," Black sighed. "Good. I was afraid Kreacher had killed you. Don't worry—I've bandaged all your wounds… fed you a bit of Blood-Replenishing potion as well."

"I'm alive?"

"Stay still for a moment. You've only just come around… think it's been around two days. Hard to tell in this house—time doesn't agree with my ancestors. I'm sorry for Kreacher, by the way. He's inherited my mother's nasty streak, very sadistic. Little blighter told me that he was only trying to keep you from escaping… gave him a good kick for that one. He's cleaning your robes—they might not be savable though… I've got sharp teeth. In the meanwhile, I've dressed you in my mum's things… sorry about that."

"Why are you doing this?" He struggled to sit up only to be pushed down firmly. "My father will be looking for me. He…"

What had Theo said again?

"He's a bad gambler! He doesn't have anything, so keeping me for ransom money is useless."

"Really?"

"Yes! Just please, let me go. I promise I won't tell anyone I met you."

"I don't want money," he laughed. "What kind of person do you think I am?"

Was it an innocent question, or a test of sorts? Perhaps he wanted him to be grateful?

"I don't know."

"Well… you're a witch… and with those robes you were wearing, there's no way you're muggleborn. Guessing you read the Prophet? What do you think?" He leaned in, baring his yellowed teeth. "Do I look like a murderer to you?"

"N-no."

"Ha! I can hear your heartbeat from here. It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you… although I am sorry for biting your leg. Does it hurt?"

"It's alright," he said hastily. "Can I go now?"

"About that… I'm afraid I can't let you leave just yet. There's things we have to talk about first."

"What things? I told you, I don't know anything! I don't know anyone…"

"Never mind that now, just focus on resting up."

"No!" At Black's quizzical expression, he added, "The sooner you tell me whatever it is you want to tell me, the sooner I can leave, right?"

"Stubborn, aren't you? You remind me of someone I used to go to school with… did you know I went to Hogwarts as well? It's where I met the rat, you know… he was never one for school-work. Seeing him going back to Hogwarts willingly surprised me as much as him being alive in the first place. Ah, but first—what's your name? I never got it, between all the biting and all."

"I'm…" He took a breath. "I'm Carina Avery."

At once, he was sure that he'd made a mistake. The hollows in Black's face seemed to darken, his smile turned into a grimace and it was as if he was staring at someone not presently in the room.

"Avery? I knew he didn't get caught," he muttered, "but I didn't know he had a daughter… Avery?"

"I-I only met him last summer. I don't really know him, I swear. I lived in an orphanage!"

"You don't look like Avery." He reached out a hand and placed it on Draco's throat. He squeezed lightly, almost gently, as if he was unsure of his own actions. "Marlene... I know he did it."

"You're killing me," he coughed out.

But Black had retreated deep into his mind, where no mere words could reach him. Upon hearing Draco cry out, his hands began to squeeze even harder. Draco's eyes squinted involuntarily but this time, instead of laying still, he began to kick out at Black's chest. The man was more frail than he looked; he grunted and shook with each blow. He was screaming something in his ear, the madman that he was, and from the looks of it, crying. How absurd the whole thing was… but this was proof that Black was a serial killer, wasn't it? Draco had seen a movie before that had featured a weepy murderer; tears during the killing seemed very common.

"Ah," Black gasped before pulling off his neck. "God."

Draco sucked in a welcome breath of air, all thoughts gone but to breath, even ignoring the serial killer on the ground. He then attempted to slide off the bed—had Black tucked him in then, like some lovely grandmother? —but before one foot touched the ground, was tackled back into the mattress.

"You can't leave," Black said. His chest was heaving. "I'm sorry. Incarcerous!"

The door slammed behind him; Draco screamed out in horror. Although the ropes were not as skin-bitingly tight as before, the knowledge that he was at the mercy of this lunatic cut deeper than any knife.

* * *

It was dark again when Sirius Black returned; the rusty clacking noise of the doorknob made Draco jump—or at least, wiggle, what with all his restraints. His wrists were red but not bloody—he wasn't stupid enough to keep rubbing against the ropes. For the past few hours, he'd done nothing but stare at the room around him. It was still dusty enough for it to be declared uninhabitable, though Black had made sure the bed was clean… stained pictures were plastered all over the walls. Most were defunct—they'd stopped moving a long time ago, he thought. In them, were dirty pictures of muggle bikes and women in bikinis a size or two smaller than expected. It was all very confusing to him—wasn't Black a supporter of You-Know-Who? Perhaps these pictures had served to fuel his anger? But they seemed pristine enough, if you wiped the grime from them. No… these were coveted images.

What were his parents up to now, he wondered? His mother would be the type to make his face front page of the Prophet, alongside a great big printed: "HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?" His father would have shut that down… he'd have a bunch of people looking for him in secret. Well, maybe in normal times. Now, with Sirius Black on the loose, and the fact that he'd been missing for at least two days… the cover that his parents had worked so laboriously on would be torn down and everyone would know that Draco Malfoy had turned into a girl. Probably. Would his father be drinking right now? It was about the right hour… he suddenly felt a lump in his throat—the way he'd acted before he'd seen them last!

"I'm sorry," Black croaked. He waved the wand; the chandelier came to life illuminating all the dust particles in the air. "I didn't mean to… do that."

"It's alright… I'll forget everything if you just let me go. You don't need me, honest. I don't know anything—this is the first year I'm to attend Hogwarts."

"You look a little old for a firstie." He sat down on the bed and removed the ropes. "Your wrists…"

"Oh, er, I'm a transfer student. My father wanted me to go last year but there wasn't really time to fit me in but Dumbledore said that I should be able to come in this year so that's why I'll be coming in this September… I think I'll be taking third year classes anyway, since I've been getting home-schooled and all."

"Calm down. I promise, I'm not going to hurt you this time. Swear on my mum's soul."

"You said that right before you choked me out," he mumbled under his breath.

"Alright… so you're Carina Avery."

"Yes."

"You'll be a Slytherin, I wager."

"It's a good house… I think my father was in Slythe—"

"Don't talk about your father!" He wrung his hands. "I mean, just… don't talk about him right now. He's not important, alright?"

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't. Just—alright, look. You see this boy?" He held up a picture of the Weasley family, clearly ripped out from the Prophet. Since when where they important enough to be front page material? "This boy's Ronald Weasley, I'm assuming? He's the one holding the rat. Wait a minute… how did you know who he was if you haven't even gone to Hogwarts yet?"

"Er, my friend! He goes to Hogwarts and he tells me things." He pressed a hand over his chest to still his beating heart. Black frowned then nodded.

"When you go to Hogwarts this year, I want you to get his rat."

"Oh god! You're letting me go after all."

"Did you hear me? I want the rat."

This was the final straw: Black was mad. Why, Draco would bet a bag of Galleons that there were at least a dozen rats in this very house.

"I'll get it," he said. Then, "How? He'll probably be keeping it in his common-room."

"Getting sorted into Gryffindor is one way." He snorted. "But with a name like Avery, probably not."

What had his parents told him? He wasn't sure if Carina was supposed to have been sorted yet or not… how did they deal with transfer students anyway? But it wasn't as if he could get into Gryffindor if he wanted to… he was a Slytherin, no matter what he said.

"I'm already sorted."

"What?" Black scratched his mane. "Guess things have changed since my time."

"Yes, er, I had a private sorting during the summer."

"You don't need to tell me—you're a snake."

"I'm sorry… but I'll find a way to get the rat. Please don't be mad."

"It's fine, fine… try getting the password off someone."

"I don't have any friends in Gryffin—"

"THEN MAKE ONE! OR GET YOUR SLYTHERIN FRIENDS TOGETHER AND CAPTURE SOMEONE AND MAKE THEM TELL YOU! USE A KNIFE, MAGIC, I DON'T CARE—JUST GET THE PASSWORD!"

"Stop, stop." He cowered. "I don't know—I'm sorry, I'll do it, just stop yelling, please."

Black got up abruptly and walked over to the window. He laid his forehead against the cool glass, ignoring the clumps of dust that fell into his hair. When it was that filthy, Draco mused, a little bit of grime probably made no difference.

"Carina, I'm sorry. I am… I'm just so… I'm just so angry; you don't understand—how could you? You're just a kid." He squeezed his eyes shut but a tear found its way out anyway. It trickled down his ashen face, leaving behind a white trail. "Fuck! What am I doing? She's a kid… a kid."

It was the sort of conversation that wasn't for anyone but themselves.

"C'mon, Sirius. Get a hold of yourself, c'mon. You're close… so close. She's not him—focus. She's not him, she's just a kid."

He was close to breaking again, Draco could sense it. His knees were shaking it was a wonder he was upright and he'd begun to smash his forehead against the glass.

"It's okay," he said cautiously. "Just… er, crying is good, I suppose. You don't need to bottle it up."

"The first person I talk to after twelve years and it's a kid." He chuckled. It broke down into a gasp halfway.

"I'm not stupid, you know. I'm thirteen! I know things. I know what it's like to be mad… you're just like my parents," he added rashly. "They think I'm too stupid to know the truth too."

"Yeah?"

"You've kidnapped me and now you're telling me to fetch you a rat! And you think I wouldn't know what it's like to be angry?"

"I'm not just saying this because you're young, Carina. It's just… I mean, look at you. Well fed, nice clothes, that pompous haircut…"

"I grew up in an orphanage."

"You ever see a friend die? In front of you?" His eyes were on the verge of popping out of his face. He walked slowly over to the bed; Draco recoiled as he sat down. "The worst part is, I could have stopped it. I could've saved her… I see that now. Nothing to do in Azkaban besides watch your memories over and over and over again… it's like a rerun, only magnified on the parts that you don't remember. If I just moved my hand a little bit to the right… I could have blocked Traver's curse."

Sirius Black drew his knees to his chest. He wasn't looking at Draco anymore; his head was down and his voice muffled.

"I didn't kill James and Lily… but I might as well have done. How did I not see it? It was so obvious… I must've seen that memory at least a million times… Peter! How did I not see it? I signed their death warrants that night and I was happy! They must've remembered that moment too… Lily always thought I was rash; she would've blamed me, I know she would. And James… he must've known Peter was weak. A traitor. He was too smart to fall for it, not like me—I believed Peter entirely. But he trusted me, James trusted me… he wasn't that smart after all, believing in my words. What did I do to earn his trust anyway? I was the one who almost revealed Remus' secret, I was the one who let Marlene die—just couldn't block that spell, could you? Just couldn't practise your wandwork, could you? Even though it was the middle of a war, you just couldn't commit… no, you had to play around with motorbikes and Emily Hoss… probably doesn't even know who you are by now! No… wait, no… even the muggles know who you are. She'll think you a psycho, a serial killer. She'll be glad that you dumped her before it all, consider herself lucky she wasn't one of your victims… what story that'd be.

"But you were content to die, weren't you? Never mind that Harry was alive, never mind that Harry lost his parents… no, you were happy to rot in Azkaban so long as the rat was dead. I was always so self-conceited, always so proud… you didn't even get the worst of it. Remus was alive. Harry was alive. You could have lived, escaped. You could have… but Peter was dead, so who cared? Peter… the little bastard, I should have killed him in first year. He was always an ankle-biting git, god knows how many times I told James to ditch him… but him and Remus—blind idiots! But he's alive… Peter's alive… I wonder how I'll kill him? The muggles drown rats in little buckets… he's too fat for that and anyway, I expect he'll transform before a whisker touches the water."

He was like a little frenzied balloon, inflating and deflating in seconds. He was breathing so loudly Draco was sure that he'd faint any second. He lifted his head—his beard was matted with all manner of liquids—and stared blankly at Draco. It took him a minute before a spark of recognition lit his eyes.

"It's funny. I haven't eaten in a week and yet, I feel so much energy. Look—my hand's shaking. It's much easier being a dog—you can't think as much and I can concentrate on getting the rat. It's being human that's the trouble… that's when I get these fits… this need to strangle something… being human means I can understand why I'm so angry and it just overwhelms me. I can't focus on Peter as well, too many memories, too many… if you could speak dog, then I'd be able to rest."

He clenched his hands into little boney fists. Blood seeped out from between his knuckles.

"I don't want to scare you. You almost look like she did… only when I hear your father's name, I get this need to hurt you," he admitted. "It's not you that I want to kill, I keep telling myself that. But… to think that after all this time, someone like Avery gets his happy ending while James and Lily lay buried in the ground… I can't stand it! People tell me Voldemort is dead; there's nothing to worry about any longer. I see them in the streets—no one seems to remember..."

"Nobody wants to remember bad things, I suppose. And besides, Harry Potter," he loathed to say it, "destroyed You-Know-Who. It's done."

"No!" Black grabbed Draco's face, smearing blood all over his cheeks. "They're still out there, they still live free. Not all of them went to Azkaban… I don't know how much you know about your father, but he… he's a Death Eater! Avery! Malfoy! Nott! Snape! Macnair! The filth walks free, most of all—Peter! That's no mere rat… don't you get it? He's like me—an Animagus. And, and… to think I taught the dirty coward how to transform in the first place. Oh god, why did I teach him how?"

"W-what are you going to do?"

"You have to bring me the rat. Carina—forget your classes, forget your exams. This might be the most important thing you ever do in your whole life!"

"And then?"

"I'll let you go. You'll never see me again. I won't hurt you, don't worry."

"Are you going to kill my father?" He wasn't sure if he was talking about Avery or Malfoy.

"I," Black faltered. He took a deep breath, set his jaw, and nodded. "I have to. Don't worry, he won't suffer—I'll give him a painless death."

"No! I'm helping you catch this rat, remember? You have to do this for me, you have to spare him!"

"I don't—I DON'T OWE YOU A DAMN THING! YOU THINK I CAN'T DO THIS MYSELF? I'M LETTING YOU GO FOR ONE MEASLY FAVOUR AND YOU THINK YOU CAN ASK THIS FROM ME? YOU THINK I WANT TO DO THIS; YOU THINK I WANT TO KILL YOU?"

"You're a psychopath," Draco sobbed. "I can't do this!"

"Yes you can. Carina, look at me. You can do this. You must. Kreacher!"

The elf appeared with a sulky bow.

"Master asks me to wash the mudblood's robes, Kreacher must burn his fingers after—"

"Kreacher, SHUT UP!" Black leaned over and slapped the elf on the head. "Carina, give me your arm."

Draco hesitated before extending the arm that Black had once broken. Despite being healed, the skin was still a bright pink-red. He trembled as Black grasped his fingers in his own rough hands. Was he going to break it again? Was that his punishment? He'd said he wouldn't hurt him but he was obviously a liar.

"Do you know what an Unbreakable Vow is?"

"Y-you can't. No."

"Who has the wand here?"

"You."

"Then I can do this. Kreacher, get your worthless self up here, now!"

"I won't do it," Draco gasped. "I'll say no."

"I should never have brought you here. I should have let you bleed out in that alley. Look at me! If you really believe the Prophet, what makes you think I won't kill you too?"

A flash of inspiration lit up Draco's features. That was it. He could, at the very least, stop Sirius Black from killing him; the tools were all here.

"Then you'll have to make me a vow too!"

"What, you want me to buy you a unicorn?"

"No. You have to promise not to hurt me."

"Make it fatally… otherwise the next time I snap, I might just die when you cry—literally."

"D-deal."

"Kreacher, your finger."

"Master makes an Unbreakable Vow with a mudblood. Kreacher is ashamed to be part of this unholy union," he muttered. He laid a sticky finger over their intertwined wrists.

"Will you, Sirius Black, swear never to kill me?"

"I will."

A band of white fire slithered out from the elf's twisted fingernail. It bound itself tightly around their wrists and burned itself into their flesh. It was hot to the point where Draco felt it sting just for a second—then his entire hand went cold and numb.

"Now give me your other hand. Good girl. Don't cry. Kreacher, your finger again. Alright." He closed his eyes, perhaps going over the words in his head, then spoke.

"Will you, Carina Avery, do your utmost to capture and bring to me the man named Peter Pettigrew?"

"I-I will."

"Will you swear never to reveal information concerning the whereabouts of Sirius Black unless I command otherwise?"

"I will."

"Good. It's done."

Both of their wrists—left and right—were now marked with thin, rope-like burns. Black grimaced; he pushed Kreacher off the bed and dismissed him. They sat there in silence, their heads bowed under the weight of what they'd done.

"I didn't know house-elves could take part," Draco whispered. It seemed unreal to him that he'd sworn a vow with this madman. Still, now that he'd sworn never to kill him, he felt much better about the whole ordeal.

"People underestimate them." Black shrugged. "Give Kreacher a wand and he'd be in the running for the next Dark wizard. Oh and… don't tell anyone that I'm an Animagus. I'm not registered. I would have included it in the vow but I wasn't sure your body could handle it."

"I wo—" His tongue rolled up and over, down into his throat. It was only for a moment, but Draco found gagging afterwards. "What did you do?"

"A tongue-tying curse. Just in case you forget. Once you're at Hogwarts, you'll be surrounded by friends, right? Friends make for loose lips."

"Then why couldn't you do that earlier? Why the vow?"

"Spells like that can be broken. I can still hide if people find out I'm an Animagus. I can't if you're feeding them intel about my whereabouts—don't look at me like that. Did you think I'd let you go to Hogwarts alone? No, you're going to be reporting to me regularly. But don't worry—catch the rat and you'll be free."

"You said he's like you—what if I catch him, and he turns into a man in my pocket?"

"Can't you do a stunner? No? What do they teach kids these days? Alright, tomorrow we'll search the house for things to put dear Peter in. There ought to be a bunch of nasty little contraptions in here—my father's speciality, that one. I hope we find one that pinches his tail."

Black looked at him expectantly, as if he wanted him to laugh.

"Look, Carina. About earlier… I'm sorry. I snapped, I admit it. You don't know what it's like for me—sometimes I think I'm back in my cell—but it was wrong to yell at you. You're a good kid… I shouldn't even be forcing you to do this but listen, I can't go back there. You understand? I won't. And even if I wanted to trust you—and I do—it would be stupid to let you go back without any precautions. Right?"

"R-right."

"You've got blood on your face." He looked embarrassed. "Here, I'll show you to the bathroom. You can clean up there. C'mon, get up. You can walk—I didn't bite you too deep last time."

Draco slipped his feet to the ground. His left ankle was clothed in heavy bandages. What scared him most wasn't the covering—it was the fact that he felt nothing there. He tapped it experimentally on the ground.

"I don't feel anything."

"That's the ointment doing its work. You ready? Don't worry—if you fall, I'll catch you."

It was all very reminiscent of a dream. Some part of him clutched to the bed, knowing that if he stepped foot out the door, he would wake up. Black half-pulled, half-pushed him towards the exit… he was whispering strange things, like, "Don't be scared," and, "I've already checked. Nothing but Kreacher and a few doxies out there." The door opened to the rest of the house and they were swallowed by the darkness once more.

* * *

He was only washing his face, so he'd insisted on Sirius Black being present in the bathroom. At first, when he'd come in alone, the mirror had scared him to death by showing some strange, heavy-lidded woman. He still wasn't sure if it was the woman herself who'd frightened him or the fact that he'd thought that it was his actual reflection. Black had come running in at the sound of his scream, only to scoff at the sight.

"It always liked my cousin more," Black said moodily. One tap of the wand and she'd disappeared in a smiling mist. Then he'd wiped the moisture off the surface and finally Draco could see his pinched, terrified looking face in the glass.

The hair his mother had so intricately tied into a hundred knots was now scraggly and matted and running down to his shoulders. Dried blood covered most of his features, but Potter's green eyes struck out vividly in the bleakness—it was just like him, Draco thought bitterly. Just like Potter to be an attention seeker. In place of his robes was a faded white nightgown—it looked like curdled milk.

"I had to take your robes off to dress your wounds." Black looked on with a bit of guilt. "Tore it up a bit too—blimey, it's tight. But don't you worry, Kreacher mends all my mum's old clothes religiously. Plenty of experience with torn robes."

"Don't you have," Draco paused. It was true that Black couldn't kill him, but was it wise to antagonize and needle him when he was so obviously mad?

"You wouldn't want my mum's robes. Kreacher's been all over them—this I found squeezed under the mattress. It looked clean enough. Anyway, just wash your face."

The water was jet-black at first. On Sirius Black's advice, he let it run for a minute or so until it was relatively clear. It was extremely cold and as it erased the blood, it froze up his head and helped ward away any stray thoughts. He sucked it into his mouth and swished. It was like he was washing away the experiences of the last week. Black handed him a towel; it still had small traces of dust between its furry follicles.

"You've still got a bit there, next to your nose. There you go."

Draco sighed and turned the water off. His reflection was much pinker than before and his fringe was dripping wet. He dabbed at it with the towel and sniffed. To his displeasure, there were hints of black around his eyes. The make-up mother had put on him… water did little to no effect on it. He rubbed at it with the damp towel—small bits of black were stained on the fabric but now his eyelids were a bit red. Disgusted, he threw the towel over his back.

"If Kreacher saw you mistreat my father's towels that way, he'd have a heart attack."

"I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't be." He stomped on it before twisting his toe deep into the towel. "It's good luck if a house-elf dies in your bathroom."

"I never heard that one before."

"See, that only applies to slimy little gits like Kreacher. You probably had one of the nicer ones, like the ones at Hogwarts."

"My orphanage didn't have any elves."

"Right, sorry. Are you done then? Good, let's get back to my room."

They passed the shrunken house-elf heads on their way back to the topmost floor; Sirius sighed wistfully. They were coated with grime, moreso than the rest of the house, enough to stand out. He supposed that Kreacher avoided these things as much as he could—after all, Draco wouldn't have liked to clean a bunch of human heads either. It was on the third floor when he fell, dirtying his newly-cleaned face with a layer of dust.

"There we go," Black grunted as he pulled Draco's arm around his shoulders. "Good thing you worded your vow the way that you did—otherwise, I might've bit it right there."

"I just tripped, that's all."

"You lost a lot of blood and you had a lunatic like me screaming at you when you needed to rest. Think you can make it up the stairs? Just one floor left."

"Yes."

"You're much more tolerable when you aren't crying, y'know that? Sorry—my fault, I know."

How had Sirius Black brought him up here in the first place? Perhaps a Hovering Charm of sorts… he doubted that the frail man could lift an infant, let alone a thirteen year old. They passed a locked door bearing the name of a, "Regulus Arcturus Black", who Draco supposed to be a brother or an uncle or a grandfather of sorts, and finally made their way back into the most muggle-like room of Grimmauld Place.

"I'll sleep on the floor," said Black.

"It's covered in dust."

"What, you want me to sleep on the bed? Ha! Look at your face go. Nah, don't worry about me. Got my fur-coat on at all times, remember?"

Draco shuffled back under the sheets then stole a quick glance at his stolen wand. Black didn't miss a beat.

"Don't even think about it. I'm not a deep sleeper—I'll wake up before you even touch my tail, let alone your wand. Get back in bed."

He sighed and pulled the sheets over his head. If this had been even a few months ago, he'd comfort himself by saying sleep would fix all things. He knew better now. The thing that would help was sleep itself… Theo had told him something morbid, that you didn't know if you were alive or dead when you were asleep. He knew that Theo had meant to scare him but now it was like a personal mantra of comfort. When he was sleeping, it was as if he didn't exist, as if nothing had ever happened and the world had never been made.

"Do you think my father is looking for me?"

There was no answer. He supposed that Black had turned to a dog now. Well, if that wasn't a sign that it was time to sleep, then Draco wasn't sure that there was one. He turned over and wrapped his arms around a pillow and like someone turning out the light, thought no longer.

Black's voice fell on deaf ears.

"I'm sure he's worried sick about you… you're nothing like your father though. I guess you take more from your mother, eh? Carina? You asleep? Good… that's good. You're a tough girl, you know that? A really tough girl… I'll get you through this, safe and sound."

He sat on a chair next the window. He would not sleep more than a minute, though not for a lack of trying. The moon, having watched her fill of the excitement, retired behind a shawl of rain-filled clouds.


	13. A Black Understanding

Even with his eyes closed, Draco could tell that it was time to get up. Sunlight stung at his eyelids, forcing its way under them and making them water up. He hated waking up. His body seemed to remember the bad things before his mind did; there was always a foreboding sense of anxiety in the pit of his stomach lately. Something was on the horizon, hunting him. There was a certain tension in his breath, like how his breath hitched when his parents were on the verge of fighting.

"Morning."

Draco peeked through his fingers, straining the sunlight. Sirius Black looked even hollower in the light—there were many valleys in his emaciated frame, all filled with shadow. He'd changed into an equally shabby pair of robes but at least his hair seemed a little cleaner. It was wet, at any rate.

"You must be hungry. Here, got you a little something."

"What is it?" Draco coughed. His throat felt sore to the touch—his pale skin was marked with an ugly purple-green, a colour he hadn't noticed in the dark.

"Just a pasty. Snatched it off a muggle when he stopped to pet me."

"Someone's been at it already!"

"Weren't you listening? Told you, I took it from a muggle. Can't go in shops; don't want to draw too much attention to myself, y'know? But hey, if you don't want it, I'll eat it."

It was a bit cold but the smell gave Draco's stomach a proper awakening. Black grinned as he heard it gurgle and Draco gave the pasty a nibble, then a small bite, and finally began gorging on it like he'd never eaten before. A mudblood ate this, said a voice in his head. You're eating a mudblood's leftovers.

"Slow down, you'll kill yourself if you carry on like that."

"Eet's goofh."

"And here I was, thinking you were a little picky for an orphan." He sighed and sat down on the bed. It let out a disgruntled creak. "Do you know how to get back home?"

Draco shook his head.

"I figured you were lost when I first saw you. What, you run away from home or something? Your father not all that he was cracked up to be?"

"He took me from the orphanage," Draco said. He licked his fingers, painfully aware of what his father would say if he saw him. "I don't really know him. I already told you last night."

"So why did you run away? Looked like he gave you everything." There was a bitter undercurrent in his tone. "A nice-looking broom, fancy robes, your little pointed boots…"

"I didn't run away; I was flying and the wind blew me away."

"Ah, so it was all the mysterious ruminations of fate. You looked like a Divinations girl."

"I don't think I chose that subject."

"Really? A lot of girls go into Divination… but trust me, you're not missing out on anything. It's all bollocks anyway."

"I see."

"Anyway," he said. "Let's leave your subjects to your teachers, shall we? Go wash up; meet me in the dining room. We need to figure out what exactly we're doing."

"Didn't we talk yesterday? I know that the rat's an Animagus… his name is Peter, I suppose. All I need to do is catch him and bring him to you, right?"

"To be honest, I don't remember much of last night." He shrugged. Draco caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. "Peter's a coward at heart. He's probably trying to escape right now… at least, if the Weasleys read the Prophet. You have to be more subtle too—if you just go barging about asking for a rat, you'll tip him off. Besides, we need to figure out how to get you home… or to Hogwarts. I haven't decided yet. Just wash up and meet me downstairs—you remember how to get there, right?"

"I don't like that mirror…"

"I figured as much. Don't worry about it; I smashed the damn thing this morning. Surprised Kreacher didn't wake you up—think he woke up half the portraits downstairs with his wailing. Here, just use this for now…" He rummaged about in his pockets and pulled out a dirty hand-held mirror. "I'll have your head if you break it though. Alright? Well, don't take too long."

Draco stared at Black's retreating figure and frowned. He wasn't sure yet if Black was a murderer or not but one thing was for certain… he wasn't a You-Know-Who supporter. Not with the way he'd carried on about Potter's parents. He drew a greasy finger across the red banners glued on the walls, the muggle bikes, and girls. Last night it had been too dark to see but now Draco could make out faint Gryffindor symbols. He knew Black wasn't a Slytherin, the way he carried on... but a Gryffindor?

"Who are you?"

A moving picture caught his eye—finally, here was some proper wizarding material! In it were four boys, ducking in and out of frame as they wrestled each other for more space, and therefore attention, for themselves. Two of them were particularly tenacious with this behaviour—he recognized the left one to be Sirius Black, and the other looked like Harry Potter… glasses and all. A tall, somewhat lonely looking boy stood off in the background, while a fat Weasley looking character squeezed his head in between the two main attractions. Had Draco ever had friends like these four? Until Theodore, he'd never had someone to confide his deepest secrets with… and even with him, there was a limit. There didn't seem to be anything hidden between this group however—carefree, silent laughter escaped their lips. They weren't just friends—they were brothers.

"Potter lives with the muggles," he mused. "I bet he's never even seen his father… I bet if I give this to him, he'll help me get the rat."

However, this plan did not seem to sit well with fate, for someone had placed a strong sticking charm to the picture. It was impossible to remove, at least without his wand. It was time to get going.

* * *

Sirius Black was seated on the dining table, gnawing on a small bone of… something. He raised his eyebrows as Draco entered the room.

"You're still wearing my mum's nightgown?"

"It's better than what you laid out for me," said Draco. "And you said that Kreacher's been all over your mother's robes…"

"He didn't do anything that bad to them," he chuckled. "He sleeps in them. Sometimes snogs them. God, the way he carries on about my mum… well, let's just say that I wouldn't be surprised to find out I'm half house-elf."

"That's disgusting!"

"Yeah… let's not think on that, shall we?" He threw the bone over his shoulder. "I don't know where your dad lives, so I can't take you home. I was thinking about leaving you in Kings Cross Station… near Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, y'know? But I'm not sure how long it'd take for them to find you there and we don't want anything to happen to you…"

"So you're going to just keep me here?" He gulped. "School doesn't start until the first of September! My father's going to kill me."

"If he ever finds you," Black added. He smiled, then, "Don't get all weepy on me now! I swore I wouldn't, er, kill you, right? C'mon, learn to take a joke… I was thinking more along the lines of leaving you in the Leaky Cauldron actually. That'll work out fine, won't it? You just tell the barkeep that you're lost and he'll sort out the rest."

"Oh, the Leaky Cauldron! Yes, that'll work. Thank god."

"I'm afraid I can't stick around once I drop you off."

"Why not? Nobody knows you're a dog."

"I have other places to be." Black shrugged. "I'll escort you to the Cauldron tomorrow."

"Alright." For the first time since he'd been kidnapped by Sirius Black, he smiled. "So do you have a plan for catching Peter?"

"Ah, about that. I had it all in my head last night… but I'm not so good with setting up anything elaborate. Originally I was going to suggest capturing a Gryffindor, maybe threatening him a bit, and getting the answers like that, but I don't think you're that kind of girl. You don't have the stomach for it… just try your best."

"That doesn't help at all."

"Right then." Black sat up straight. "Do you think you can befriend a Gryffindor? Don't wrinkle your nose; answer me."

"Do I have to be their friend for real?"

"Nah, just do what you can to make it believable. It'll be better if you start from the train ride—plenty of time to burn in there, so there'll be plenty of time to make a good impression."

"So you want me to get into a compartment full of Gryffindors? Great."

"You swore a vow, remember?" He flicked at Draco's fringe. "Don't take this seriously, and you might just die."

"But Ron Weasley doesn't even know me! People already have their friend groups now... it'll be hard to break in."

"So get to know him. How hard can it be? I mean, god, you're in third year, right? You're a girl—just say hi to him a few times and he'll let you in, friend group or no. Hell, I don't think I even knew the names of half the girls I ran around with. Anyway, with your hair, you even look like a Weasley—no offence—it'll be easy."

"I'll be ganged up on," Draco said moodily. "They hate Slytherins over there. I'll be lynched."

"Oh come off it already. Nobody really cares about that stuff… or just go to the library, find a Gryffindor with no friends, and say you want to be his revising partner. Hell, if you want, I'll give you all the old common-room passwords I can remember. Have fun staying up all night trying them out."

"l'll look like a stalker that way," he sighed. "Anyways, I got it already… so once I get invited in, you want me to just make a run for the rat?"

"No! Don't be stupid—Peter will see you coming from a mile away, I told you this already. C'mon, aren't you supposed to be a Slytherin? What happened to all that cunning? Just butter that Weasley boy up, and when he's good and happy with you, just ask to see his rat for a second. Say you have an uncle who's a rat-keeper—it doesn't matter what you tell him, so long as you keep your head on… by that I mean don't be acting all suspicious around him."

"He's always surrounded by—" Draco paused. Technically, he wasn't supposed to know anything much about Hogwarts and its inhabitants. "Oh, never mind. I'll do it."

"Good. Oh and, if you can…" His face flushed. "Could you keep an eye on Harry for me?"

"You want me to watch over Harry Potter? He doesn't need me... he's famous—all the teachers love him. Probably."

"It's not like I can just pop up to Dumbledore and ask him how Harry's doing. Remember, Carina, you're the only one I can talk to right now."

"At this point I might as well be a Gryffindor!"

"Oh c'mon, is it that bad? I'd have expected you to jump at the chance to get away from those smarmy dungeon-dwellers. Come on! It's your first year, right? You don't even know these people."

"Fine, I'll do it. If I can squeeze past his sycophants and groupies, that is."

"Harry's not that kind of kid," Black scoffed. "Just watch over him. For me."

"You wouldn't know it, you've never even seen Harry Potter."

"Neither have you. Are you always so bratty? It's no wonder you're in Slytherin, really. Carina, it's just for a year! Or put it this way… the quicker you get Peter for me, the quicker you can get back doing whatever Slytherins normally do."

"Alright, alright! I'll watch over him."

"Good. Do you have the mirror I gave you earlier?"

"I left it in the bathroom."

"Oh, damn it all. Stay here… we don't want Kreacher getting any funny ideas."

He left Draco to kick at the remaining table-legs until he returned.

"Kreacher didn't come bother you, did he?"

"I haven't actually seen him today," Draco admitted.

"He's probably off sulking somewhere. Maybe talking to one of the portraits in the hall. Here." He held out the mirror. "Don't lose it again."

"I didn't… I just placed it near the sink."

"I want you to keep it on you at all times."

"Why?"

"You'll see." He pulled out an identical—if a bit dirtier—mirror from his pocket. "Carina Avery."

At first, Draco wasn't sure what he was supposed to see. The mirror was blank—more like a piece of glass than an actual mirror—but from Sirius Black's breath was born a swirling mass of pink and ginger and green that began to coalesce in the center before shifting into Draco's reflection.

"That's me."

To his surprise, the reflection mouthed his words perfectly.

"Look at yours," said Black.

"And that's you, I suppose. Can you actually hear me through this?"

"What are you, deaf?"

"It's all in sync; it's hard to tell!"

"Well what use would it be if it wasn't? This is how we'll be communicating when you're in Hogwarts most the time. Just say my name—make sure nobody's around you—and you can fill me in on the details."

"I see. Well, that's a relief! I thought I'd have to sneak out of the castle to meet you."

"Well," he frowned. "I'd like some face-to-face moments too, just to check up on you—see if you've been charmed or anything of that sort. Don't laugh! I wouldn't put anything past Dumbledore if he found out what you're up to. And besides, when you catch Peter, you'll have to meet me anyways."

"I can't be sneaking out every day though."

"We'll make it a monthly visit." There was a faint smile on his face, as if he were reminiscing a happy memory. "Oh, and you'd better not shirk your duties. I want a report every single night, if possible. If you don't contact me, I will."

"Every night? I can't do that… I'm not even sure if I can do it every week! I'm supposed to be rooming right next to Professor Snape; he'll hear everything."

"Snape?" His voice was wavering again. "What's wrong with the dormitories?"

"I'm sick, alright? I need him just in case I get really ill during the night."

"Really? You don't look that bad to me. When I first saw you, you looked like a plump little thing."

"I'm not fat!"

"What I meant was you looked healthy enough." He shrugged. "You're not a werewolf, are you?"

"What—how dare you! It's quite obvious I'm not one of those _things_."

"Hey—watch your tone. I'd be more comfortable rooming with ten were-wolves than a greasy little tosser like Snape. I'd almost forgotten how easily Dumbledore believed his lies… while he left me to rot in Azkaban." He spat on the ground. "You can't trust either of them, Carina."

"Oh, but I suppose I can trust you? You're a serial killer!"

For an instant, Draco thought he'd gone too far. Sirius Black looked as feral as any mutt wandering the streets—a rabid thing with no consideration for their own life, happy to die so long as they tasted another's blood on their lips.

"Listen," he hissed. "I'm no murderer. I'm going to explain this to you only once, you hear? I never killed an innocent man in my life! The Prophet's got it all wrong—Peter's the one who blew up that street, Peter's the one who killed those muggles, and he's the one who betrayed Harry's parents. I'm not a murderer… I would've thought you'd understand that after last night."

"I couldn't hear half of what you said last night, not with you trying to kill me every half-second!"

"I didn't—I only lost it once… Carina, I'm not a murderer!" His fingers traced the bruises left on Draco's neck but Draco felt the energy coursing behind those boney things, felt him holding back from squeezing once more. "I told you I was sorry! Why can't you just listen to me? Why d'you keep bringing it back up? I'm telling you the truth and I don't care if you believe me or not, just—STOP LOOKING AT ME WITH THOSE EYES! I can't stand it! The way you look at me—like you're scared I'll hit you… I made a vow, remember?"

"I can't help it if you keep yelling at me," he said. "It's like you're mad! Like you belong at St. Mungo's. I can't tell if you're actually crazy enough to try killing me through the vow… you're keeping me here and talking to yourself about people I don't even know and you're telling me you're trying to keep Potter safe and you want me to believe that the person you're famous for killing is actually living as a rat in some boy's pocket—I can't be here any longer! I just want you to stop, stop, just stop yelling at me—I never asked to be kidnapped by you, I never wanted to be here… I had my wand, I could've sent up sparks for the Ministry to come find me, I never needed your help!"

"I thought I needed your wand at the time," Black said curtly. "I was planning to give the Wealeys a visit. But after I saw you bleeding out… and anyway, it'd spell trouble if you told the Ministry about a dog going around stealing witches' wands."

"Why didn't you j-just kill me and leave me alone?"

"Wh—I told you, I'm not a murderer! You think I could leave you there in the streets? I never supported Voldemort; I was Jame's and Lily's best man for god's sake. Everything you know about me is wrong, alright? Listen!" He cupped Draco's chin and forced his head up. "I'm not going to pretend like I'm fine; I know I've gone a bit around the bend. And l'm sorry for involving you in all this… but you must believe me. I never betrayed the Potters… god, is that what everyone thinks of me? Even Harry? C'mon, Carina, you're a smart girl—it was Peter, it was all Peter. Once we catch him, I'll show you everything—I'll make him tell you."

"So you're not a D-Death Eater?"

"No!"

"And you actually want to help Harry Potter, is that it?"

"After I kill Peter."

"Who the hell is Peter anyway!"

"He used to be a friend of mine. There's all you really need to know; I told you, we're never going to see each other again as soon as you get me the rat. Just bear with me until then. Can you do it? I don't want you breaking down as soon as you reach Hogwarts."

"I already told you I can do it!"

"Well, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist. You just cry something awful, that's all. You're really quite the opposite of what your father was like in school… and I promise, I'll try to keep my temper in check. C'mon—let's go look for a cage to hold Peter in, shall we? Plenty of stuff there to keep our minds off things… you'd best be on your guard though; my dad had a wicked sense of humour."

* * *

The first thought that entered Draco's head as they emptied the Black cabinets was: Mother would've loved this. He nearly dodged a sharp needle as his next; it flew past his ear and lodged itself into the peeling walls.

"Whoa! Careful there." Sirius Black nudged him aside before peeking inside the drawer. "That'll be my mum's. We can't use it for anything though… and entertaining as it'd be, we don't want Peter getting killed before I can actually commit the crime I was locked up for."

"I suppose I'll just leave it there then."

"Nah, this is what you do with junk." He lifted the basket filled with knitting material and threw it on the ground. "Anything useless—you toss it."

"How about this?" Draco held up a mole-skin purse. "I can't even open it; he'll have a hard time getting out of this one."

"Give it here. Damn, you're right—tighter than a… well, you don't need to know about _that_. It's useless if we can't actually put Peter in it though."

He flicked it over his shoulder in the ever-growing pile of junk.

"Predatory mouse-trap… maybe I'll keep this for a bit. It'd be nice watching it chase him around. What's that you've got there?"

"A locket." It was mesmerizing the way it sparkled, even in the house's dim light. "There's a little snake on it."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Black said with a wry grin. "Typical."

"I'm not that kind of girl, if that's what you're implying."

"Nah—just that there's a reason you're in Slytherin. No wonder your name's Avery, really."

"You're acting like there's no way a Gryffindor would like this thing."

"There isn't. It's too tacky for people who aren't snobby little princesses."

"I never said I wanted it!" He threw it into the pile, although not without a slight twinge of regret. "It won't help us catch Peter anyway, not unless he likes wearing jewelry."

"I don't mind if you keep it, honest. You can take anything you want from this dump. I'll probably burn the rest later. Just look at this garbage… 'Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy'."

* * *

When the junk-pile grew up to around Draco's shoulders, Kreacher came shuffling in from his self-made exile. For the first time since he'd seen him, the house-elf's eyes bulged past the usual squinting. Kreacher made a mad dash for the various broken ornaments while screaming.

"Kreacher knew it, Master plans to uproot the noble name of Black and plant filthy mudblood seeds in its stead, what would his mistress say if she saw him throwing out her valuables, Kreacher must stop him!"

"Well, I knew he'd show up eventually," said Black while rummaging through an old desk. "Ten points to Slytherin if you can get his nose."

"He's creepy."

"Nah, just gone a bit loopy from being stuck in this house. I don't blame him for that, to be honest. Being here makes me a bit mad as well. You find anything yet?"

"A pipe. Look, it blows bubbles when you blow in it."

"Toss it."

Draco took aim at Kreacher's nose, pitched, and hit the tip of his ear. The elf didn't seem to notice; it was too busy shoveling handfuls of the pile in its clothes.

"I missed."

"You actually threw it at poor old Kreacher?"

"Well, you told me to!"

"Ah… well, seeing how you failed miserably, ten points to Gryffindor instead."

"I don't care about imaginary house points."

"Kreacher has found it!"

They turned their heads around to spot the elf kissing the locket from before, almost religiously in nature.

"It's dirty enough already," Black growled. He snatched it from Kreacher's neck, almost strangling him in the process. "Here, Carina—catch."

"I don't want it."

"I don't care. I'd rather see it around your neck than his. It irks me to see the little toe-rag being so happy."

"Oh great." Draco clutched the locket in his hand and lifted it high above his head. "Look, now he's coming for me."

"The mudblood holds Master's locket, Kreacher must protect it from her filth, Kreacher will not let the brat keep it for a trinket, no doubt that the harlot will sell it for—"

"Get the hell out of here," Black grunted, lifting the elf by its toga. "Don't you have a snogging session with my mum's robes?"

Kreacher made a valiant effort to re-enter the room; Sirius Black lifted the wand and the doors slammed shut on his fingers.

"He's a vile little thing," Black said. "It's ruined my mood—having to hear him speak… I never thought I'd be back here. It's more than a little disheartening… I never really thought of a place to go after Azkaban, but this place definitely wasn't on the list."

"It's your house, isn't it?" Draco slipped on the locket. It was heavier than it looked. "If I were in Azkaban, I'd want nothing more than to come back home."

"My home." Sirius Black laughed. "Come here for a minute. I want to show you something."

He led him to the far side of the room. A frayed tapestry hung on the wall. Although there was no wind in the house, it moved very gently from side to side.

"The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," he said. "You'll never find a bigger collection of prats. If you see someone on there—intact, at least, well you'll know what they're like. That's me there. That little burn-mark—you see it? My entire life summed up with one little black hole. Mum must've had a field day when I ran away."

But Draco wasn't looking at Sirius Black's scorched image. Linked by one golden thread was a little blond boy—his face… or what the artist had imagined his face to look like, come the years. What would they say when they saw him now?

"Draco Malfoy," he whispered. He hated how foreign it sounded to his ears, how awkwardly it fell off his tongue. "Narcissa Black. Lucius Malfoy."

"Are you looking at the Malfoys?" Black leant in. "I almost forgot how smug my cousin could look. She wasn't always like that though… believe it or not, she used to be alright for a Slytherin. Ah, and that'll be their son! Look at him, the little blighter."

"He's perfectly fine-looking," he snapped. "He's not a _blighter_ ; he's probably the best you could find at Hogwarts."

"Ah… I'm sorry. I didn't realize you two had such history behind you." He snorted. "Is he your mysterious Hogwarts friend then? You need to get a better taste in men—or is it boys, at your age? Seriously, you'd better watch it. You might just turn out like Cissy here."

"And what's wrong with ending up like her? If you ask me, she looks like a perfectly respectable woman."

"She's an idiot, and so are you, if you think like that. But that's beyond the point… I never belonged here—that's what I wanted to show you." He shrugged before steering Draco back to the yet virgin cabinets. "Come on. We'll never get things done if we just stand here discussing my unfortunate relatives."

* * *

By the end of the day, they'd found three things to hold Peter in: a lid-less jar, which shrunk anything inside it to a minuscule size; a glove which had grasped Draco's fingers in an invisible, bone-crushing grip; an enormous tobacco case which once opened, had covered Draco in a cloud of purple smoke and caused him to fall asleep immediately.

"Clearly, the glove's the only way to go," said Black. "I don't have any qualms about killing a Peter with broken limbs."

"He'll transform though, won't he?"

"He's too much of a coward for that. He'll be scared of bursting open."

"I don't want to carry around a squirming rat… he'll try to bite me, I suppose."

"So what do you want?"

"The tobacco case. Then he'll be completely asleep, and I'll be safe."

"Wh—I'm not throwing a slumber party over here! Giving Peter a good night's sleep is the last of my worries—I want to give him nightmares, not a nice little nap."

"I don't want him to bite me!"

"Look here. Aren't you a witch? Pure-blooded at that?"

"Oh right, because that makes it all the better how? I mean, unless the mudbloods have a monopoly on not wanting to be bit."

Even as he said it, Draco knew he'd done something wrong. There was a silence in the air, a silence that was somehow deafening angry with what he'd done. His mistake had been getting too comfortable with Black.

"What did you say?"

"I-I only meant," Draco stammered. "Well, never mind that now. I was only—"

There was a resounding crack; Draco thought for a bizarre moment that Kreacher had arrived to his defence. Then a fire started on his cheek and just like the time Theo had hit him, he knew what'd happened.

"Just like your father," Black spat. "I don't know why I expected better of you. Slytherin, pure-blood, last name Avery… I knew you looked a little disappointed when I told you I wasn't a Death Eater."

"I just picked it up from him," he said hastily. "It's only habit… and with Kreacher around I just forgot—"

"Forget what? Forget that 'mudbloods' are a vile, filthy race? You saw those pictures in my room, figured out I was a 'Muggle-lover' and kept your sneaky little mouth shut, didn't you? You little worm—god, they start out quick, don't they? What did your dad teach then, eh? Did he teach you how to torture the muggles? Teach you where best to hit them, to make them scream until they spit out blood? I made a mistake ignoring brats like you… thinking they would grow up, thinking that people like Dumbledore would sort you lot out, thinking that school would fix your broken little minds, thinking it's just them being young, parroting their parents… BUT THEY GROW UP, DON'T THEY? AND IT'S NOT SO CUTE AND FUNNY WHEN IT'S NOT A LITTLE GIRL SAYING 'MUDBLOOD' BUT A GROWN WOMAN WITH A WAND, ISN'T IT? I SHOULD HAVE KILLED HALF THE SLYTHERINS IN MY GRADE! THEN I'D HAVE GLADLY GONE TO AZKABAN!"

"I didn't mean it, I didn't!"

"You didn't mean it. D'you think I'm stupid?" Black made to hit him again but pulled his hand back at the last minute. "I-I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget. Scourgify."

Draco began to choke on rose-scented bubbles. Foam dripped out his mouth but no matter how many times he spat, the soap remained in his mouth. For something that smelled so wonderful, it tasted as bitter as could be.

"Asg awlin o' flaaugh!"

"Don't understand you, but that's how stupid you sound when you say 'mudblood'," Black said. "Your mouth's dirtier than these floors—I'll need another minute or two to clean that out."

Draco coughed, sucking down stray bits of foam. It burned his throat and made him cough even harder. This process only served to shove more of the stuff down his throat, which in turn made him cough again and again, choking out any air from reaching his lungs. He gagged and tasted bile on his tongue before that too was scrubbed away by the soap bubbles.

"Do you think you've learned your lesson?"

"Y-yuas!"

"Alright. Don't let me catch you saying that word again. I'll believe you this time… but next time, I'll know that it wasn't just a slip of the tongue."

After a period of retching while Black looked on with little sympathy, Draco wiped his mouth and uttered a small, "I won't."

"Alright," sighed Black. He patted Draco's back. "We'll use the tobacco case."

* * *

For supper, Sirius Black had snatched a half-eaten sandwich from another muggle. There was no pumpkin juice here; instead, they had tap-water in chipped mugs. Black had procured an ancient bottle of rum but Draco had wisely turned it down. They sat in Black's old bedroom, for the dining room was too close to Kreacher's cupboard—the wretched thing had been screaming for close an hour now. Before that, he'd caused an unimaginable amount of ruckus going through the garbage pile they'd left in the drawing room.

"Aren't you eating anything?" It was the second time today that Draco was eating a mud—no, a muggle's scraps.

"I already ate." Black took a swig of rum, grimaced, and reached for the water.

"I suppose the missing half's in your stomach, then."

"Nah," he laughed. "Rats."

"You don't mean… 'rat' rats, do you?"

"Is there anything else? It's practice for when I get Peter."

"Oooh… but he's still a man."

"I'm just kidding. I wouldn't even want to touch him, let alone eat him. And anyway, rats don't taste so bad when I'm a dog… the senses are more muted… from my experience, dogs have very low standards when it comes to food. To be completely honest, I probably had a nicer meal than what you're having right now."

"This isn't so bad, I suppose." He pulled the bread apart to reveal a mixture of cold-cuts, pickles, and some type of sauce. "It's edible."

"I'm so glad I have your approval."

"What's your relation to Harry Potter?" Draco felt he had a vague image of who Sirius Black was but now, with the excitement running away, he wanted to make sure he knew who exactly he was working for.

"Why do you want to know?"

"You're not the man I expected, that's all."

"Yeah… I'm his godfather."

"Oh." He chewed his sandwich. "So you must have been good friends with his parents… and Peter betrayed you all, somehow, to You-Know-Who."

"Didn't we go through all this? Honestly, Carina, you must've been a Hufflepuff in a past life."

"I'm just trying to figure you out… Sirius Black: a Gryffindor, a runaway, hates Dark wizards, and actually loves Harry Potter."

"That sounds about right."

"And you want me to go to school, be friends with Ron Weasley or some other Gryffindor, watch over Harry Potter, and get you the rat."

"Genius."

"I don't think we ever worked out a schedule for using these." He pointed at the two-way mirrors.

"Just whisper." Black shrugged. "Look—what's important, in the end, is that you fill me in on the details. I guess I can let you off the hook for daily check-ups. Just do it however you can."

"So no plan."

"My brain's fried at the moment, so no. Make it up as you go along. It's not like I'm the first one to come up with these mirrors; you just can't let other people see my reflection. No one'll recognize my voice, not after twelve years, so that part… I think you can be a little lenient about that. If people ask, just make something up—say you're talking to your boyfriend in New Zealand, I don't care."

"That's a stupid idea! Next they'll be asking to see this 'New Zealand' boyfriend."

"I don't care about the details." He waved his hand dismissively. "Tell them to stuff it and keep their noses out of other people's business."

"Right."

"By the way, are you gonna wear that thing to school?"

"Oh!" He pulled the locket off his neck. "I forgot it was there."

"I have an idea. Keep it and sell it at Diagon Alley. It'll fetch you a pretty price—think that's real gold and emeralds. You still need to buy your school supplies, right? Think of it as an apology."

"I have gold, thanks."

"Your dad has gold," Black corrected. "He must be one generous guy for you turn it down so quickly. Funny… I never knew Avery to be anything more than a prick. Who knows? Maybe he'll be angry with you and send you back to that orphanage, and then where would you be?"

"I get it, I'll take it." He wore the locket once more. The heavy metal felt freezing cold against his chest—like it was leeching the heat from his body. "You just don't want to give it to Kreacher, that's all. When can I have my wand back?"

"I'm, er, keeping it." Black shrugged. "I can't exactly pop in to Ollivander's, can I? That's why I gave you that locket—sell it and get a new wand."

"Oh, very well!"

"Atta girl." He smiled. "But don't think I don't hate Kreacher either... don't forget—I still have to stay in this dump for a little bit. I think I'd hang myself if I had to see him prancing about with that locket around his neck. You done eating? Here, wipe your mouth with some of the curtains there."

"Can't I go to the bathroom instead?"

"If I have to open that door and hear that house-elf's shouting one more time, I don't know what I'm liable to do."

"Oh, alright."

Draco drank a bit of his water then used the rest to wet the curtains. The damp cloth worked decently in washing his face. As he crawled into Sirius Black's bed, he saw that the man had already curled up into a furry black ball. It was strange. Although he didn't exactly feel comfortable around him, it wasn't like Black really scared him anymore. In fact, Draco was a little disappointed that the big bad wolf had turned out to be Little Red in a suit. Or, to be more precise, Little Red's family friend.

"Good night, er, Sirius Black sir."

He thought he heard a muffled bark of a laugh but before he could think more on it, the pillow smothered him with a deep sleep.


	14. oh my god i found the rat

**Note:** WO-OAH there! I haven't finished this story actually, far from it... I'm just making it up as I go along. I usually take about a day to write one chapter then the next I use to skim over it and catch the spelling errors and stuff... but I don't always catch them all :D

I hope that I can keep up the pace but there might be times when I get a brain-fart and take longer than usual huhuhu.

Also, what do you guys think about tagging characters? I don't want to mass-tag everyone that appears in the story... maybe I should give it a minimum requirement for them to appear in like at least four chapters before I tag? nt sure

* * *

It was late in the morning when they set off from Grimmauld Place. Kreacher had dogged their steps all the way to the front door, his bullfrog voice demanding the locket which hung around Draco's neck. He'd wanted to throw the damn thing away to stop the elf from shouting so much—everything in Grimmauld Place was so loud, he'd noticed—but one look from Sirius Black had stayed his hand. They walked down the muggle paths together. Draco garnered strange looks, from the bruises on his neck to his ripped ropes—Kreacher hadn't done a great job after all; Draco suspected that he'd sabotaged them as revenge—to his tiny pointy boots. No one dared do more than comment on his torn up appearance, however, as Sirius Black padded along besides him in a rather menacing fashion.

Even in the summer heat, Draco did not feel warm—the locket was sucking up all the warmth inside of him. It was very uncomfortable, the way it stuck to his chest… he could feel the tiny ridges cut into the emeralds, digging into his skin. Despite the coldness of the metal, he felt as if it were burning its image into his flesh. He could not bring the mirror along despite Black's protests; there was nowhere to hide it and how would he explain picking up a random magic mirror while lost in London? Perhaps reassured by the Unbreakable Vow they'd made, Black had let him off with a warning—he was to meet him by the Forbidden Forest—near the gamekeeper's shack—when term started to retrieve his mirror, or he'd break into Hogwarts himself to shove it down his throat.

"What's the matter?" said Draco.

Black had stopped abruptly by his feet, making him stumble over his tail. He was signing something with his nose, pointing upwards then left.

"I suppose you're trying to tell me the Leaky Cauldron's just around the corner."

If dogs could speak, Black would have said, "Bloody obvious, isn't it?" Instead, he let out a great huff and began retracing the path they'd taken. He stopped at the edge of the road, let out a bark, then disappeared. Draco let himself give him a tentative wave, and then he was off on his way.

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron wasn't the most sophisticated of places, but it was a good wizarding bar full of magical folk. He could let himself relax here—though perhaps not enough to say mudblood out loud—and for a moment, he basked in the familiar sights of magic. Self-stirring spoons, gobstones, proper wizarding hats and robes… this was home, a shelter from the shadow of crudely made muggle cities. He marched over to the innkeeper attending to the bar.

"Hello." He smiled. "I'm lost."

"You're what now?" His eyes darted over Draco's figure, giving him a quick run-over. They widened when they saw the torn robes, the messy hair, and the bruised neck.

"Lost. My name's Carina Avery." He paused. Had his parents sounded the alarm and revealed this entire façade? "I think you ought to know who my father is…"

"Avery? I didn't know he had a daughter." The innkeeper shrugged. "I'll send him an owl. In the meanwhile, you take a seat over here, where I can keep my eye on you. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine… oh, erm, do you keep copies of the Prophet? Perhaps from last week?"

"No, no." He pointed a wand at a dirty rag; it began to clean the insides of a battered mug. "We throw out the old ones at the end of the day. But you can ask the gentleman over there—think he's about done with his."

* * *

The gentleman in question was not even half-way through reading the news. He'd informed Draco of that rather snidely before taking a sip of tea. But it was nice to see the young taking an interest in politics—that was what the papers were all about now, politics—god knew that they needed it, the whole lazy bunch of them.

"Can't I just take a peek at the front page?"

"It's rather rude of you to interrupt my reading," he said. "But I can see you're not going to leave things well alone, are you? Here."

"I'm not on here!"

"Why on earth would you expect that? 'Sides, we're on about Sirius Black now… unless you've escaped from Azkaban, don't think your pretty little face will be replacing that mug any time soon. Aren't you thinking a bit highly of yourself? Hang on a moment, I wasn't done with that!"

"Enchanted goldfish tanks, a mugging in Godric's Hollow, illegal broomstick modifications?" He flipped through the newspaper, ignoring the printed portraits crying out as he ruffled past their pages. "But I've been missing for two, three days now."

"Yeah, you look it. Like a bear mauled you." He whistled and snatched the paper back into his meaty hands. "Now lay off. Go bother someone else 'cause I'm about to do the crossword now—I need to concentrate for that one, can't be playing with a little girl like yourself, there's loads of tricky little words here."

"Oh, can't you just rip off the crossword?"

"I like to do a bit of light reading in between. Gets my noggin' going when I'm stuck, see. Now piss off."

"I'll help you with it, if you let me read a bit more."

"Blimey, you're lucky you're pretty, aren't you? I like solving my crosswords myself, thanks. Go bother Tom if you've nothing to do. As a matter of fact, think I'll call him now. Hey Tom!"

The innkeeper hurried over.

"Take this girl off my hands, will ya?"

"Come along, Miss Avery." He took Draco by the arm and steered him towards a free stool. "I've just sent a message to your father. I expect he'll be here to pick you up as soon as he's able. Butterbeer? On me, of course."

Draco accepted the bottle, took a sip, and laid his head down on the counter. The Butterbeer was nice and cold, perfect for the sweltering heat. At least, in theory it would be—the locket was stealing the cold from the drink until the mouthful of Butterbeer was lukewarm. He remembered faintly Theo's voice telling him that they'd drink Butterbeer together at Hogsmeade. It was better when cold, that's what he'd said. He choked down the rest through a hard lump in his throat.

* * *

Tom had just treated Draco to a piping hot bowl of chicken soup when his fathers arrived. Frederick Avery sat on his left and Lucius Malfoy his right. There was a certain air of mischief in Avery's eyes but his real father looked almost terrified. He was blinking very fast and Draco could tell that he was holding back from embracing him. His stomach growled and he decided that at the moment, he liked the soup more than these two men—they might as well have been strangers to him.

"So my daughter returns at last," Avery drawled. "Whatever was she doing, I wonder. You've been missing for two nights. Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"I went out for a flight." He shoveled bits of chicken and broth into his demanding mouth. "The wind was really strong."

"It looks like you've been in a scrap." Avery let his finger poke into Draco's bruised throat. "I don't think _that's_ from the wind."

"Avery," warned Lucius.

"I'm merely disciplining my daughter, Lucius. You've got to teach them young or they'll never listen. Something about their brains being too hard." He smirked. "Do you know what I think, Carina?"

"I can't read minds." He drained the bowl and set it aside. Tom was nowhere to be seen; he'd clearly felt the need to give the father-daughter reunion a sense of privacy.

"Attitude, Carina, attitude! And to think I plucked you from that nasty little orphanage… you ought to have a little more respect for your father."

"You're making a fool of yourself, Avery." Lucius' hand twitched towards his pockets, itching to draw his wand. "I warn you."

"Oh, very well. Let's go home, shall we?" Despite Draco's protests, he lifted him into his arms. Lucius rolled his eyes. As they left for the doors, Avery whispered into Draco's ear. "Enjoying ourselves? Your father has a soft heart; I'm not fooled so easily. Look at you… those bruises, those torn up robes, the little bits of red about your eyes… you've been with a man, haven't you? Naughty boy, tch tch."

"Didn't my father give you enough gold to shut your mouth?"

"Not as much as you'd think." They were outside now. "I had a debt to pay. He kept me out of Azkaban, you see."

The ride home was quiet, though Avery did give him a fond farewell, 'befit of a proper father-daughter bond', as he said. He could swear that his ribs had cracked under the pressure. Draco's mother was waiting for him by the front porch. Her eyes were bloodshot but she wore a brave smile on her face. At that moment, all the doubts he'd had about her, all the little complaints that'd been building up in his head vanished and he felt only the love a child could feel for their parents. He ran into her open arms and enjoyed the warmth of her embrace that not even the locket could steal away.

* * *

There were no questions that night. His mother had insisted on putting him to bed right away—after an enormous meal served by their new house-elf, that is. His father had acquired this new servant from somewhere in Wales, she'd said. Frankly, she didn't care if it came from Timbuktu, so long as it did its job and god knew she needed a break from maintaining the house by herself—would he just look at her hands, all shriveled and wrinkled like a washer-woman's? It'd take days to restore them back to normal—her sister had once compared her hands to that of a perfectly fit satin glove, and she still held that remark in great esteem. Draco couldn't tell the difference… after all, his mother had a plethora of spells related to the upkeep needed for a manor of this size. Although his appetite was as big as it'd ever been, he ate only the porridge out of the feast that lay balanced on the teeming tabletop. The pain in his neck ebbed and flowed; tonight, it was sore enough that it deterred him from doing much chewing, despite his hunger.

Mother had made no mention of his beat-up state. She'd only clucked her tongue as she wrapped a thin cloth—soaked in some sort of formula—around his neck. The robes she packed carefully in a box. She needed to send them off to a proper seamstress to mend; elves weren't good enough at this sort of thing and who wanted to stake five-hundred galleons on a house-elf? Draco hid the locket under his pillow… he had no doubts that mother would've liked the jewelry, it was so in touch with her style, but he didn't want her to question where he'd picked it up. A locket of this quality, this make… it was bordering on the lines of impossibility that he could've found it on the streets—it was far from garbage.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart." She brushed at his hair once more, her fingertips reluctant to leave. She bent down and kissed him fiercely on the forehead, as if he'd disappear without her touch.

Although his bed was of a far better quality than the one he'd slept in Grimmauld Place, the same restless sensation was there in his stomach. He tossed and turned, ruining the hair that his mother had so lovingly washed earlier, and flipped his pillow over to find the cooler side. It lasted all of five minutes before he needed to flip it again. His sheets were marketed as 'season-free', but all of their purported abilities to change from hot to cool, depending on the user's body heat, weren't working tonight. Summer nights were usually cold to offset their daily components, but Draco was burning up—he was working up a frightful sweat and yet doing nothing more than shifting his legs a little. There was only one thing for it… he reached under his pillow until his fingers grasped the locket. The effects were immediate. Now he felt on the verge of freezing, with the metal pressed close to his heart, but even that was preferable to the heat he'd felt earlier. Besides, one could always bundle up—there was no limit on wrapping yourself in things like blankets and clothes, but it wasn't as if you could take off more than your robes to cool off. He felt almost like he'd actually frozen to death—his limbs seemed numb and their activities had grown lethargic—and this forced stasis was much more successful in inviting a much needed sleep.

* * *

He was awoken near the crack of dawn by his parents' voices. The locket had made a deep indent right below his left clavicle—with a curse, he stored it back under his pillow.

"There's no doubt about it," his father said. "She's been seeing someone."

"Oh, rubbish. We checked with just about every wizarding family near us. They wouldn't lie, not when it comes to a missing child."

"Narcissa! Her broom was found broken, don't you remember?"

"So she crashed! I always said that line of broomsticks were much too fast for children. I can't believe there aren't any regulations against the Nimbus models."

"Torn robes, that ghastly mark on her neck… dirty hair, as if she'd been lying in a riverbank."

"You know what those muggle cities are like."

"And not to mention," he hissed. "Someone's taken her wand."

"I'm sure she misplaced it. It may have fallen out while flying—goodness knows those robes aren't suited for… irregular patterns of flight. You do know how she loves her little tricks—why, she nearly broke the chandelier doing a 'Piltie Flyover', or whatever it's called. Remember? You locked it away for a week. And anyways, what of it? I was planning to buy Carina a new wand at any rate; saved me the trouble of convincing you."

"It could have only been a wizard, I tell you! The stupid little mudbloods wouldn't know what to do with a wand… they'd have snapped it, or thrown it in gutter. Now, my contacts at the Ministry tells me that they've done a full sweep of London—they can't detect the damn thing! This means only one thing. Someone… _assaulted_ her and made off with her wand."

"Don't you dare even speak of that."

"Those bruises weren't made by an animal! The entire ride home I was looking at her neck in the mirror… those are human prints, human!"

"How can you even think of such things, Lucius?" She sounded faint. "You know how those muggles are. Brutes, louts—the whole lot of them. But they wouldn't… go there! They didn't! It's the magic they hate…"

"Shh. You're right. You're right." There was a brushing noise in the hall. "I was wrong… but Carina met with somebody, that I'm certain of. I may have an inkling as to who… but we won't know for certain, not unless we ask her."

"You know my cousin wouldn't do that." Her voice was sharp now.

"Narcissa, he's an escaped convict! Now, I don't believe he's had a change of heart… no, he must have betrayed the Potters out of fear, not devotion to the Dark Lord. With him gone, I believe that Black means to carry out a personal vendetta—that is, to go after those who remain loyal to the old ways."

"I don't care what he is, he's my cousin. Sirius wouldn't hurt us. He may hate us, but he wouldn't dare raise his wand against family."

"You told me he ran away from home," he said wryly. "And dear Bella—"

"We're not talking about my sister."

"If you wish. However, I'm certain about Black—he fits all the possible angles. We must ask her, Narcissa. Not to mention, if her information leads to the capture of Black, I imagine the Minister will be most pleased."

"No. It's not Sirius; it can't be. We're not talking about this, I know that we aren't." There was a pause. "Just let her sleep. She must've been terrified—can you imagine? Being lost with the muggles… it's a wonder she made it to the Leaky Cauldron in the first place. Ah, but that's her smarts at work—Carina must have remembered the little trips you took her on."

"I'll ask her nicely."

"No! She's not right, not at the moment. I don't want her running away again… once she's at Hogwarts, then you might ask her questions. Severus would watch over her… but not now."

"I'm her father! What on earth does she have to be frightened about here?"

"Oh, Lucius. Don't you see? It's because of us she ran away."

"You can't go on babying her forever," he said impatiently. "She was very vulgar before she left. Avery was right, you need to discipline them before they grow too old to listen."

"I know, darling, I know. You've told me only a hundred times."

"I just… I don't know what to do. I don't know how she'll take the news… we've been biding our time, getting her used to things little by little… but when I see her eyes, I can see the hope that she places on me and I can't bring myself to say it."

"She just needs time to grow up… we can wait a while longer."

Try as he might, Draco couldn't go back to sleep. There was a sickening feeling of permanence upon him—was Theodore right then, as always? Was his father merely lying to him about his workings at St. Mungo's? Up until now, he'd always felt that somewhere in the future, everything would be okay. Somehow, sometime, he'd be fixed. He'd seen his father's picture with an old professor, knew of his purported title as a master potioner. His mother was no slouch either, and Snape was the best of the best, cream of the crop—for who else could teach the subject at Hogwarts? And yet, they'd all failed him time and again… but perhaps, they did not mean to. Perhaps—his heart raced—this was a matter out of their hands. But he would not think on it, he decided. He would keep the faith. After all, if he gave up now, he wasn't sure what else he had left to live for.

* * *

Breakfast was a short ordeal. He avoided his father's meaningful looks, his open mouth just about to utter a question before his mother timely interruptions. Draco was pleased to find that the salve his mother had applied to his neck had worked; you could barely see the bruises now. It didn't hurt to eat either and he'd cleared away three plates before he felt full. He could see a lone figure waiting at the base of the tree—Theodore Nott. Evidently, Avery had a big mouth.

"You don't look much different," said Theo. He waited for Draco to catch his breath before beckoning him around the trunk, hidden from the view of Malfoy Manor.

"I was only missing for two days."

"A lot can happen in two days. Honestly, I thought you bit it. Black's still at large, you know."

"Ah, who cares about him anyway?" He felt undeservedly smug, knowing what no-one else but Black himself knew: that he was innocent. "Anyway, you can't come over like this anymore. I'm supposed to be an Avery, remember? I'm not to tell anyone—Mother thinks I haven't, at any rate—and I want to keep it that way. I can't give my father another thing to yell at me about—honest, I'll go mad."

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Er… y'know, that fight that we had."

"Oh. I don't care about that anymore. I've got much bigger things in mind." He fingered the locket tucked under his robes. He'd gotten used to the chilly effects it carried. He suspected that he'd been overreacting all along.

"That's a relief. I thought you might've run away because of me."

"Don't be getting too big for yourself now. I obviously didn't run on _your_ account; I mean, I beat you that time, didn't I?"

"Oh." He scratched his head. "And I even bought you something as an apology."

"Did you?" Draco perked up. "I won't say no to that."

"Nah, I don't think you need it any more."

"Is it food? Or maybe a new broomstick—I broke mine in that stupid muggle city."

"Does this look like a broomstick to you?" Theo pulled out a small packet. "Here you go."

Draco ripped open the packet eagerly. Out fell a small box with a smiling woman on it.

"Do-it-yourself hair dye." Draco frowned; the little woman wasn't moving. "Is this _mud_ -I mean, muggle stuff?"

"Yup. It was a pain in the arse finding it too."

"I'm not going to use _muggle_ products," Draco scoffed. "Who knows what's in this stuff?"

"Well, there's a list right there." He pointed towards a black block of tiny-lettered words. "Want me to read it for you?"

"No! Honestly, I don't need it. There's nothing muggles can do that a potion wouldn't."

"And how's that working for you?"

"Oh, whatever. You're not going to get me angry anymore. Like I said," he tapped the side of his nose, "I've got bigger things on my plate. Here, take it back."

"Alright." He shrugged and pocketed the hair-dye. He looked crestfallen. Draco felt a twinge of guilt, something that surprised him nearly as much as the fact that Theo had bought him muggle hair-dye to begin with.

"Look, I really appreciate it. I just don't need it right now… I suppose I've been biting your head off for a while and," he paused. He loathed apologizing when it wasn't needed… was it needed in this case? It'd be better to keep him on your side, said a sage voice in his head. "I'm sorry, alright?"

"You must've been really traumatized," said Theo. "First you stop yourself from saying 'mudblood' and now you're saying you're sorry."

"Don't be a dick about it or I'll take it back."

"No, no. It was just unexpected, that's all." He leaned back against the tree. "So, what did happen out there? When you were lost, I mean."

"Oh…" He chewed his lip. "Nothing."

"I heard that you were beat up something awful. My father was surprised to hear that Avery had a daughter… but he said that it wasn't unexpected. Said there were probably a million bastards of his, just running around the country."

"I just ran into some muggles. They took my broom, and my wand! But I got away in the end." He pointed at the faint bruises adorning his neck. "Look! You can see it if you squint."

"Wicked." He made a popping noise with his mouth before placing his hands around the now, almost-invisible handprints. Draco jerked backwards.

"Are you mad?"

"I was just seeing how big their hands were," he admitted.

"I get that… but you could have just asked, instead of jumping me like a maniac."

"Aw…"

"So… I'm guessing that my parents kept the secret then? Seeing how your father doesn't seem to know."

"Oh yeah," he said. "They didn't put it in the Prophet or nothin'. Just came around to the old crowd, y'know? Had the Avery bloke with them—think they asked all the way to Greengrass."

"Great. Now everyone'll know of me."

"I don't know. It's not like they know that you're 'Draco'. Me, personally, I think it gives your story more credibility. Seeing how Avery himself backed it up—you should've seen him, by the way. I think he likes acting out the role of a distressed father. He was all weepy; for a second, I almost thought he really did have a daughter."

"He likes a lot more than that, believe me," he said darkly.

"So now that everyone knows—well, everyone in the old crowd, I guess—are you going to move back in the dormitory?"

"God, no!" Draco shuddered. "First, I'll probably have to room with the girls. And I don't think I can keep up the mask around them all the time—they'll know loads more about, well, being a girl than I do. Besides, they'll start to think that I resemble 'Draco', and I don't want people poking around… no, it's better to stay next to Professor Snape."

"C'mon, nobody will think anything. There's gotta be like forty girls in there—you'll blend in."

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out something's wrong. I mean, just look at me. The only thing different from second year is how long my hair's grown."

"Not really. Your face looks sorta different… and you've got _these_."

"Hey!"

"What? We're both boys, right?"

"No we're not!"

"Oh, so when I do _this_ , that's when you're a girl."

"I didn't come here to be accosted by some licentious idiot." He shivered. "That's disgusting."

"Uh-huh. Say, maybe you could get an accent. Then nobody'll think anything of you."

"Yeah, no thanks. I don't fancy sounding like that bloke Finnigan, thanks." He got up and contorted his face in a manner similar to his schoolmate's, then said, "Me mam's a witch."

"Gaun' yersel!"

Spurred on by the encouragement, Draco spat out words and phrases of dubious Scottish origin. It sounded like someone had stuffed Seamus Finnigan into a turntable; vaguely Finnigan-ish sounding tunes came pouring out for the next ten minutes. They spent the rest of the day mocking whatever classmate popped up in their head: Theo did an excellent impression of Daphne's whooping cough, while Draco acted the part of the doting Tracy Davis. Then came Crabbe and Goyle, which consisted of nothing but grunting; prefect Terrence Mullberry with his perpetually creased forehead; Cedric Diggory and his swooning fangirls—Draco had insisted on being Diggory for this one; the ones that they couldn't quite remember—was it Sully, or Sunny? Either way, she was in Ravenclaw; and to top it all off, a little dramatic piece about Potter and his sycophant, Weasley. A stick stood-in for Granger.

* * *

It was the last day before term began and Draco hadn't yet bought his wand. The other supplies on his list, books and cauldrons and potion supplies alike, had been bought by his parents. There had even been a queer little book that had snapped at his father's fingers, leaving behind paper-cuts and blood-stained pages. No matter what they tried, it could not be tamed. His mother ended up charming it unconscious before tying it up with a red sash. His teachers would know what to do about that. But he still needed a wand and a proper one, at any rate, required the user to buy it personally. His parents had not brought up his flight the whole summer long, but now, they were lecturing him on the importance of staying with Mister Avery—who had taken valuable time out of his day to escort him to Diagon Alley. He was his daughter in the public eye, after all. Draco was dressed in his finest—or what his mother considered his finest—and from his reflection, really couldn't recognize himself as someone who'd once been 'Draco Malfoy'. His locket, as always, lay tucked underneath his robes, smack-dab on his chest. He'd insisted on applying liberal amounts of make-up in a paranoid attempt to transform his face—his mother had been surprised at first, as she hadn't touched him with a single brush since his return but had quickly warmed to the idea.

"Keep close to him at all times, understand?" His mother said, as she fussed over a stray strand of hair.

"Honestly, I think I'd be safer without him," he muttered under his breath. Then he looked up and said a sweet, "Yes, mother."

"Good. That's my girl."

"Ready?" That was his father, coming back from having spoken with Avery. "I don't want you out of his sight."

"I won't."

He walked out into the porch and took Avery's waiting hand. After a quick nod to Draco's parents, he said, "Have you ever Apparated, Carina?"

"N—"

There was a lurch in his stomach, as if he'd been yanked upwards with a cane; a swirl of lights, and Draco found himself in Diagon Alley clutching tightly onto Avery's forearm. He felt sick and was glad that he'd opted to skip breakfast.

"That was fun, wasn't it?"

"You didn't give me time to get ready," he complained.

"Aw, 'I diwdent giwve you tiwme to get weady'."

"Is there no one sane in my life?" Draco muttered.

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

"I said, I need to get my wand. It's that way."

"Are you sure it's not _that_ way?"

"That's a completely different store; look at the sign! I've already got my books."

"Oh well, if you know where you're going." They began to walk past the window-shopping crowd. "But you're aware I'm here for a reason, aren't you? We wouldn't want another escapade, no we would not. If I weren't here, well, I shudder to think of the possibilities. Wouldn't be surprised to find you strutting about in Knockturn Alley, for instance."

"Uh-huh. I'm informing my father about everything you say, so you'd better watch it."

"But Carina," he leant in with a mocking gasp, "I am your father. Aren't I?"

Draco ignored him in lieu of the new owls stocked in the Emporium. There was a barn one with a white eye—despite its injuries, a sign assured him that it flew well. Still, it was fifty percent off…

"Aren't I?" His voice was sharper now, less amused. His grip on his hand grew tighter, not unlike the handshakes that Marcus Flint gave out.

"God, ouch! Yes you are; will that do you?"

"I haven't had this much fun in a while," he admitted. "Although there was this nasty incident at the Ministry last night… ah, but such sordid tales aren't for young ears."

"Oh no, whatever shall I do without one of these 'sordid' tales?"

"You could buy your wand, for one. We've walked past it."

"I'm not blind or stupid, you know." Draco craned his neck around; sure enough, Ollivander's was nowhere in sight. There was a bunch of students all together in a queue at Madam Malkin's, trying to get a last minute robe-fitting. Nearby, a street vendor sold pastries filled with all manner of things, sphinx-meat among them.

"Would you like one?"

"Are you asking me?"

"Is there another girl I'm holding onto?"

"I don't want a pastry, I want a wand."

"Ah yes… it must feel terrible to be wandless in this day and age. Armed only with these little hands." He squeezed gently. "Just like a muggle. How vulnerable you must feel, how weak. Why, even a first year could apprehend you, just like that."

"I don't feel anything of that sort. At any rate, muggles don't have magic so it's incomparable, really."

"You must be—"

"There it is." He marched up to Ollivander's and squirmed free from Avery's grip. "Wait outside, or whatever it is my father told you to do."

* * *

There was a boy inside the wand-maker's shop already. It was a bit late for anyone to get their wands the day before term started—most families preferred at least a week prior, just for their children to get the feel of it—but accidents always happened. Perhaps he'd gotten his wand stolen, just like him. There was a familiar air about him though, and Draco ducked behind a shelf in case it was someone he recognized. A thin box dropped to the ground as he did so, however, and Ronald Weasley turned around and looked him in the eye.

"Aren't you—oh! Never mind. Hullo," he said. He was tanned and had sprouted a new pack of freckles. "Getting a wand as well?"

"O-obviously." His locket was practically rattling from his heartbeat. Didn't Weasley recognize him?

"He's just gone to get mine." He gestured at the counter, where Ollivander would have stood. In his place stood a pile of discarded wands, pulled from their boxes. "I must've gone through a dozen by now."

"Well, I heard these things take time." But what good luck he was having! Sirius Black had told him to befriend the Weasley, and here he was, in front of him. Forget the train-ride, he'd twist him around his finger by the day ended. He had to be nice to this boy, he chanted in his head. Be nice to Ronald Weasley. He's your friend… but more importantly, your ticket out.

"I guess so. He's been there a while now."

"Well," he brightened his voice, "maybe he's getting a really special one. You know, I heard that Ollivander's keeps his best wands in the cellar so that no one can steal them. I bet that's what's taking so long. It's only for the best wizards."

"Really?" He seemed to be thinking over the lie. "I hope it's not too long though… I don't fancy breaking another wand. I'm Ron Weasley, by the way. What's your name?"

"Carina, erm, Avery."

"Avery?" He frowned. "Your dad works in the ministry, doesn't he?"

"Oh, I don't know much about my father!" He knew from Weasley's face that it was critical to put as much space between 'Carina' and 'Avery' as he could, and as soon as possible. First impressions were important, that was what Sirius Black had said. What did Weasley like? Muggles, food, Quidditch, Gryffindors…

"'Spect he's busy with work?"

Draco nodded.

"My dad can be like that sometimes as well." He shrugged. "Did you hear that Sirius Black escaped? Loads of people are working overtime for that one."

"Yes, this one will do quite nicely." Ollivander's voice carried his owner along the hallways littered with wands. He came up to Ron Weasley and put a long, light-brown wand in his hands. Instantaneously, golden sparks began flowing out the tip of his wand, casting everything in a shimmery light.

"Bravo, Mister Weasley, bravo!" Ollivander clapped his hands; Draco was reminded of a house-elf. "I trust you shall be keeping this one intact?"

"Yeah, 'course." He flushed and pushed seven galleons into the wand-maker's palm. "Are you going to Hogwarts? I've never seen you around…"

"Oh me?" Draco giggled. Half of the emotion he put into it was a genuine fear of being discovered. "I'm a transfer student! My father picked me up from the orphanage recently… it'll be my first year at Hogwarts."

"Oh… well, Hogwarts is nice enough. Did you go to a muggle school then?"

"Oh no, it wasn't in a muggle neighbourhood." He became aware of Ollivander's expectant stare. "Listen, do you suppose we could talk later, after I get my wand?"

"With me?"

Draco nodded, then added, "It's my first time getting a wand so I'm a little nervous…"

Ron looked out the window where his mother stood waiting. She waved at him, smiling.  
"I'll have to go tell mum, tell her I'll catch up… I'll be back."

The door jingled as he left. Draco could see him waving his arms about as he explained the matter—then his heart skipped a beat as Mrs Weasley peered in through the glass, as if she were examining him. To make matters worse, Avery was just across the street… and while his mouth was preoccupied with a pastry, his eyes were fixated on his. He turned away with a jerk and focused his attention on Mister Ollivander.

"Erm, I'm here for a wand."

"First timer?"

"Y-yes." As skilled as he was, there was still no chance that he'd recognize him, would he? The familiar tape measure hovered about his body, taking snap measurements of the length of his fingers to the space between his brows.

"And which arm is your wand arm, dear?"

"My right."

"I see. Wait here." He shuffled back off into the maze of bookshelves. The door opened and Ron Weasley came in shaking his head.

"You'd better watch out. Once mum heard you lived at an orphanage, she wanted to come in here herself. Especially after hearing who your father was… how long have you known him?"

"Me? Oh, not much… barely a year, really."

"Blimey. I couldn't imagine even living a month with that bloke."

For once, Ron had said something that he wholeheartedly agreed with.

"He can be a bit of a pain," Draco admitted.

"Figures. Say, do you know which House you'll be in?"

"Erm…"

At that moment, Ollivander came bustling in with an armful of boxes. He brushed the casualties from Ron's choosing from the counter, sending wands and boxes alike to the floor. The first wand he gave to Draco was a short, black one.

"Ebony, with a core of dragon heartstring. Six inches. Quite rigid."

"Cherry, unicorn hair. Ten and a half inches. Nice and swishy. Give it a go."

"Aha! Acacia, dragon heartstring—again. Seven inches. This one's a bit firm as well…"

It was the fourth wand that chose Draco. It was a chalky-white thing, made from aspen with a core of unicorn hair. It was eleven inches and when he gave it a good flick, not as springy as he'd liked. Still, the soft sparks of light that fell like snow flakes from its tip was indication enough for Ollivander, and Draco placed seven galleons into his palm.

"That's a good-looking wand," said Ron.

"Is it? It's a bit hard." He swished it through the air again, then tucked it into the sleeve of his robes. "What's yours, by the way?"

"Mine's made from willow. Same core as yours, but a little longer—fourteen inches. Neat, eh?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to see if Hermione's found Harry yet." He hesitated. "I don't suppose you'd?"

"Me? I'd love to come along." Anything to ditch Avery… although it came with the risk of discovery. That Granger was a smart one, and Potter was as suspicious as could be. Still, if Weasley had been fooled—and he was the purest of the three—then it would be relatively safe, he supposed.

"Excellent. Don't worry, they won't mind."

"We need to ditch my father though." He pointed at Avery, who'd begun to walk across the street. He'd finished his pastry and as though he could hear them talking, quickened his pace.

"Blimey, that him? Right over there? He's coming our way."

"He's been spying on me all break."

"Ergh. We'll have to make a run for it… no other way. C'mon, let's go!"

As his feet pounded away on the pavement, he found himself smiling in spite of himself. Running away with Ronald Weasley was fun. The only problem was his fancy robes, which hindered his sprint. It wasn't like he could tear them, not out here… Ron turned around and slowed down so that he could catch up.

"He'll catch us if you're this slow, y'know."

"I know!" He swiveled his head around for something, anything, to slow down Avery. His eye stopped at a street peddler selling cauldrons for below-market prices. They ranged from pewter to iron to silver; a single gold cauldron topped the rest… but it was far too glamorous to be authentic.

"I get it," Ron nodded.

They ran behind the pile of cauldrons and gave it one good push. They'd created pandemonium in a span of a second—without magic as well! Several wizards were laid out on the ground; the cauldrons in question rolled around and settled at peoples' feet, tripping them up. Draco was pleased to see Avery stuck behind the shouting crowd.

"Let's go," said Ron. "Believe me, we don't want to get caught here."

Upon seeing the shoppers converging on the peddler with their wands out, Draco couldn't help but agree.

* * *

They met Hermione Granger on their way to Flourish and Blotts. She too, was sporting a dark tan and her unruly hair was as bushy as it'd ever been. Draco bit back an instinctive sneer—this was Ron's friend, so he had to be nice to her as well… the thought made his stomach turn.

"Have you found Harry yet?"

"No. Have you?"

"Hm. Honestly, I think it'd be better to stay at one place. I feel like we're just missing him by a step, don't you?"

"I guess." Ron shrugged then whispered to Draco. "I knew we'd find her here—she's probably been looking for Harry in a book."

"Is that your cousin?" Hermione squinted at him.

"Her? Oh no, we just met today, as a matter of fact. Her name's Carina Avery. Carina, Hermione Granger."

"…Pleasure."

They shook hands rather awkwardly. Draco had an intense feeling of not being wanted here… but he had a mission to do and a boy to woo, so Granger could get stuffed.

"Are you talking about Harry Potter?" He upped the innocence in his voice.

"We're his friends," said Ron, if a bit smugly. "It's alright; he's not all that he's cracked up to be, honest. Did you know that he blew up his aunt?"

"Ron!"

"What? It's hilarious!"

Draco put on a small giggle and watched as Hermione struggled between pulling Ron away and being decent towards a stranger.

"You-can't-be-going-around-telling-the-entirety-of-Diagon-Alley-about-Harry-blowing-up-his-aunt," she whispered harshly.

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not, am I?" He turned to Draco. "Hermione here thinks you're about as large as Diagon Alley."

"What—"

"That's alright," said Draco. He dug a toe into the ground. "I mean, we've only met just now…"

"Ah, don't worry about Hermione. Harry wouldn't mind to begin with."

"Mind what?" A voice said, right behind Draco's ear.

"Harry!" Hermione gave him a deep hug. "We thought we'd never find you!"

"Hermione and I've been searching the entire place," Ron added. "If you didn't show up in the next hour, we were about to go into Knockturn Alley next."

"Really?" Harry was grinning. "Don't think I'll be heading there again anytime soon, thanks."

"Ronald only wants to see it for himself," said Hermione.

"It's not like I'm the only one! What about you, with your 'there must be some incredibly obscure books down there' and your 'and I mean, they can't be all bad. Harry found Hagrid there, remember?'"

"Oh all right," Hermione scowled. "I admit to wanting to visit Knockturn Alley. Happy?"

Harry only laughed. "It's good to see you too."

Draco found himself sympathizing greatly with the lonely scarred boy he'd seen in the photo at Grimmauld Place. This must've been what he felt, as Sirius Black and James Potter had jockeyed for the center stage, with Peter in-between. Off to the side. But there was something that they didn't know and he did—Knockturn Alley. Perhaps he could act as their guide...

"Oh!" Perhaps he'd sensed the tension in his shoulders. Ron pushed him into their little circle. "Harry, meet Carina Avery. Carina, this is Harry Potter."

"Hello," Draco muttered. He remembered then that Sirius Black had requested him to watch over Potter. "It's a pleasure to meet you. You're the Boy-Who-Lived, aren't you?"

"I guess." Harry shrugged. "I try not to think about it. Are you Hermione's friend then?"

"Ronald met her this morning," said Hermione. "Isn't that right?"

"Yeah, at Ollivander's. We got our new wands together. Look, Harry." He pulled out his wand. "Fourteen inches, willow. Unicorn hair. Carina's got the same core."

At Ron's nudging, he pulled out his wand as well. He felt slightly foolish—Potter and Granger were clearly far more invested in Ron's wand than his; they were merely tolerating him out of politeness towards their friend. On the bright side, they hadn't reacted to his surname as Ron had... but that, Draco chalked up to pure ignorance rather than any tolerance on their side.

"Cool," grinned Harry. After a moment's notice, Hermione had to say that it was very good indeed that Ron had bought a new wand.

"Now you'll be able to do your schoolwork properly," she said. "I always wondered why the teachers wouldn't help you replace it."

"Come off it, Hermione. They had more important things to do… remember the basilisk?"

"'Course she does—she's the one who found it out in the first place," said Harry.

"Hogwarts had a basilisk?" Draco feigned horror; in truth, he'd wanted it to kill the trio standing around him.

"Oh of course you wouldn't know," said Ron. "It's her first year at Hogwarts, y'know."

"First year? How can you be a first year at our age?" Hermione frowned.

"Oh, well… I'm a transfer student. I'm caught up though, so I'll be in third year."

"That's our year!" Harry smiled. "What house are you in?"

"It's not Slytherin, is it?"

"I'm sorry, Ron." He looked down, ignoring Hermione's expression of, 'you've only met this morning and you're already on a first-name terms?'. "I was sorted into Slytherin during summer."

"Ah… well, I suppose you couldn't escape your family's name. It's to be expected—all my family's in Gryffindor, for instance."

"Ron!" Hermione seemed a little brighter now that she learned he was in Slytherin, though he couldn't figure out why. "I'm sure there's nothing inherently wrong with Slytherin house."

"Yeah, nothing wrong at all. Just filled with a bunch of toe-rags like Malfoy, that's all. I wonder why that is?"

Harry laughed. Draco held in the urge to sock him in the face, to hex all of them right here and now. If only they knew who they were speaking with… then they'd be sorry!

"It'll be alright," said Hermione. "You don't seem like a 'toe-rag' at all."

"Yeah… sorry about that." Ron coughed. "Don't worry. You'll only have to eat with them, sleep with them, and go to every class with them. But that's all."

"Ron!"

"Well she can hang out with us during free periods," Harry said. "And you don't have to sit next to the Slytherins in class."

"It's tradition to though," Hermione muttered. "God, it's hot. Shall we pop round Fortescue's, then?"

"Definitely," Harry agreed. "He's been giving me free sundaes all summer. I'd feel guilty if I didn't pay for at least one."

* * *

Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was as busy as ever. They sat down in the shade of a large parasol and broke the ice over their ice-creams. Ron had a raspberry ripple, Hermione had some sort of vanilla—it had little peach ridges running through it—with crushed honeycombs over the top, Harry a simple chocolate and banana, while Draco had ordered an Eton mess with a little tacky parasol perched on a strawberry. He'd offered to treat the whole lot of them, as he suspected Weasley would be smitten by the sight of the money alone, but they had promptly—but politely—refused.

"Say, Carina, won't your dad be looking for you?" Ron suddenly looked worried. "Diagon Alley's not exactly large… he'll have gone through all the shops."

"Oh him," he scoffed. "If we're in luck, he'll have broken a leg or two."

"You ran away from your dad?" Hermione looked up from her ice-cream. "But…"

"Oh, c'mon, Hermione." Harry said. "You don't know how many times I wanted to run from the Dursleys. Anyway, it's not like she's running away forever."

"Harry, that's completely different!" She leaned forwards. "I don't think you should make your dad worry like that. It's not very nice… especially not now."

"Yeah, he'll be working up a sweat in this heat."

"No, Ron. I'm talking about Sirius Black."

"It's not like the bloke's going to show up here, is he?" He dropped his spoon into his empty bowl. "Listen, Hermione, you weren't there with us… her dad's a bit loopy, I'd say. No offence, of course."

"None taken." Draco grinned.

"I mean, you only need to look at her clothes to see what kind of a man he is."

"Absolutely." He too, had finished his ice-cream. "He treats me like I'm a doll."

"See? I told you he's creepy. I wasn't going to say this but my dad has loads of stories about Avery." Ron sighed. "Of course, I don't blame you. But your dad's on another level—they raided his house one night and found a whole bunch of Dark artifacts."

Hermione kicked at Ron's shin. He doubled over, cursing.

"So tactless," she muttered.

"So, er, have you lot seen the new broom on display?" Harry pushed up his glasses. There was a distinct hungry look in his eyes. Draco couldn't blame him—he wanted the Firebolt as well, especially now that his Nimbus had snapped into two.

"Are you kidding?" Ron leapt to his feet. "It's the best in the world! Of course I've seen it."

"It's supposed to have the finest control yet; I read that it practically follows your mind more than your hands."

"If dad won a second lottery…"

"So, Carina," said Hermione. "Have you bought all your supplies yet?"

"Oh yes," he said. "Father and I picked up the whole list a while ago…we only came here to buy my wand."

To be honest, he wanted Granger to stuff it—what, didn't she know that girls liked Quidditch too? But then again, he wasn't exactly dressed for the occasion… god knew what a little hoity-toity princess he looked, what with his intricately done-up hair and his noble robes. The locket being worn outside would have been the perfect touch but—and it was only now that he remembered—it wasn't for wearing… he'd brought it here to sell.

"Me too. Did you enroll in Care of Magical Creatures? I did; I thought it'd be really interesting to get a look at the creatures in the wizarding world. I've been to the zoo, of course, but—"

"What's a zoo?" He had to be nice to Granger for now.

"Oh, you're just like Ron! Are you a pure-blood as well?"

Draco nodded.

"He was ever so curious about it when I wrote him… it's like a little village filled with muggle animals; they have their own houses and such. People pay to look at them and we have little outings during school sometimes… I think it's rather sad, keeping them cooped up like that."

"But, erm, didn't you say they had their own houses?"

"Oh, well, house isn't the right word to describe it then… they're all in these little cages, you see, and they have to be looked at all the time—they have absolutely no privacy, by the way. And I've seen the things that they feed them, they might as well be feeding them straight from the bin!"

"It sounds awful." He mustered as much empathy into his voice as he could.

"It is," she said grimly. "I plan to do something about it when I grow up."

"So…" He racked his brains for something to say. "Did you actually get a change to read the book yet? Mine's all… bitey."

"I've wrapped it up in Spellotape for now," she said, biting her lip. "I hope there's nothing we need to know beforehand. I wonder who the teacher is."

"Professor Kettleburn."

"Oh, have you met him already?"

"Oh, erm, no, of course not. I had a friend in Hogwarts that took it before, that's all."

"What's it like?"

"He didn't really fill me in on everything." His palms were sweaty. "They just looked at, erm, unicorns and pixies and things like that."

"Really? Oh, I hope the course material's not changed—I'd love to see a unicorn! Muggles know all about them, of course, but we only think of them as fairy-tale stories."

"Unicorns?" Ron paused from his Quidditch talk. "In Magical Creatures? I hope so… d'you think the teacher will mind if we pick up a stray hair or two?"

"You've already got your wand," said Harry.

"Not for me! We could sell it at the Apothecary—trust me, it goes for a ton of galleons."

"He won't allow that," said Hermione. "It's not yours to sell—I expect that he'll want to keep it. Ooh, maybe we'll need to find out the qualities of unicorn hair—I always wondered why it was so popular in wandworking."

"What's your core again?" Harry asked.

"Dragon heartstring. Now, if we've all finished eating, I think I'll head off to the Emporium. I mean, you lot already have your owls… and the school ones tend to bite."

"Errol's not mine." Ron pulled out a rat and slapped it onto the table. It twitched its nose; beyond that, Draco couldn't tell if it was alive or dead. Still, his heart leapt at the sight of the sorry thing—so this was Peter!

"He looks…" Harry petered off.

"Mum said it's old age. Personally, I think it was Egypt that done him in. It was bloody hot there and I think I forgot to let Scabbers out of my pocket."

"He looks alright to me," said Draco. He reached out a tentative hand and poked Peter's head. If only Weasley was by himself… then he could snatch it and run away.

"Yeah well… I think I'll get him checked out while we're here."

"I'll come with you." Harry said. "There's some owls in Magical Menagerie, too. Hermione can have a look at them while we're at it."

"Well…" Hermione hesitated. "I was sort of hoping to get a regular owl, if you know what I mean."

"What's wrong with magical owls?" Ron said. "Wish Errol was magic—then he wouldn't be falling apart all the time."

"Nothing! They're just… well, they're kind of _purple_ , aren't they?"

"So?"

"I don't want an owl that stands out so much, Ron. Harry's got Hedwig, and you've got Errol… I don't want to be the one with 'Purple McPurple'."

Ron laughed.

"Bet Malfoy would love that," said Harry. "'Spect it'll give him something else to laugh at. Alright—we'll get Ron's rat checked out. Should we meet at the Leaky Cauldron, then?"

"Deal."

* * *

Once they'd paid for the ice-creams, they left the shade of the parasol and walked down the street in the blistering sun. They split off at the crossroad—Ron and Harry went left, while Hermione beckoned Draco towards Eeylops Owl Emporium. Draco hadn't expected to be accompanying Granger… but then again, If she could put in a good word for him, it would be much easier for him to manipulate Weasley. They heard the screeching before they arrived at the store.

"I saw some new arrivals earlier," said Draco. "But I don't think you should take them—one of them was blind."

"A blind owl?" Hermione frowned. "Are they allowed to sell those?"

"Erm, I suppose. There was a discount, though."

The Emporium smelled worse than it looked. It wasn't exactly a bad smell… but it was very animistic in nature, very musky. Owls rattled in their cages, some hooting and the others screeching. One little owl even let out a series of chirps. Hermione seemed to be deep in thought.

"It's only temporary," he said, thinking back to what she's said about 'zoos'.

"I know. But it seems rather cruel, doesn't it?"

"Erm, yes. They don't seem to have much space for their wings, I suppose."

"And look at the state of their cages!" She pointed towards a tawny owl. "There's… droppings all over the floor."

"Right." He turned around and nearly bumped into a gunk-covered wooden perch. "I say, look at all this filth!"

"I don't know if I want an owl anymore."

"Don't worry about that! They're not so dirty all the time… look," he pulled out his wand. "Scourgify!"

Instead of the soap bubbles that Sirius Black had summoned, all he managed to do was shove the droppings onto the floor.

"What on earth are you doing over there?" A little man stormed out from behind the counter. "No wands inside; can't you read the sign?"

"She was only trying to clean these cages," said Hermione. "Are they supposed to be this dirty?"

"Owl-keeping is a respected tradition," the man snapped. "I wouldn't expect two girls to understand. Now, are you here to purchase an owl or not?"

"Oh yes," said Draco. "Please forgive me; I only thought to summon some wind in this heat."

"Hmph."

Draco dragged Hermione along deeper into the Emporium. The owls here were sorted by size; at the far end was a bird half his size, by his right stood one no larger than his hand. They hooted sleepily.

"I can't believe him," said Hermione. "Can't he see that he's abusing these owls?"

"Oh, wizards can be like that sometimes," said Draco hastily. "He would've kicked us out if we carried on though."

"I'd rather be kicked out than give my money to this place," she hissed. "Even if I save an owl from this shop, I'm only encouraging his behaviour."

"I could buy one for you."

"That's not what I meant and anyways, it'd be effectively the same thing."

"I suppose… so shall we meet back up with your friends?"

She seemed at an impasse.

"I suppose you could just buy the cheapest one," Draco said.

"Hm."

Choosing the right owl turned out to be an impossible task. Draco pointed out a few that he thought she would like, but each one was 'too expensive' or 'oh, that one looks half-dead already' or just 'hm'. The owls in question didn't help matters; many of them were aggressive, snapping at Draco's fingers. The shop owner had given up on trailing them an hour ago and instead shot them dirty looks while tapping his clock. Draco got the message: choose an owl or get out.

"What do you think about this one, Carina?" She'd warmed up to him during their owl hunt.

"That's the blind one I was telling you about!"

"It doesn't seem to have affected her sight that much. Look." She wiggled her fingers and watched it follow them. "Maybe it's only in one eye."

"You're right. Is that the one then?"

She seemed to be mulling it over. The owl crooned and put its beak between the cage bars.

"It likes you," said Draco. He hoped that it'd push her over the top and that they could finally get out of the stuffy Emporium.

"You're a pure-blood, right?"

"I suppose."

"What are owls like? I mean, I know the basics… goodness knows how many times I've used Hedwig. But there must be some tradition to this sort of thing, right?"

"Erm… barn-owls are considered to be lucky?" He shrugged. He didn't want to lie too much; Hermione would figure him out. "I don't really know… I wasn't really brought up in that manner."

"Lucky… I think I'll take him. Or is it a her?"

"That barn-owl's a boy," said the shop-owner. "I'm glad that you've finally made a decision. A minute more and I'd have you both for loitering. That will be eight galleons."

* * *

Once Hermione had handed over eight out of her ten remaining coins, they were back onto the streets. Draco sucked in a refreshing breath of air then promptly choked on it—Avery had found him at last. He was across the road like before, but this time, he had a purposeful step in his stride.

"Erm, I've got to go."

"Already?" said Hermione. Her arms were wrapped around her owl's cage. "We were supposed to meet up back at the Leaky Cauldron."

"My father's found me, that's all."

"Is that him, over there? Ooh, he's coming this way… well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before he found you." Hermione shrugged. "It's a good thing, really. You shouldn't be running away at a time like this… anyway, I'll see you at Hogwarts then?"

"Oh, yes."

"I'll tell Ron that you said good-bye, shall I? Thanks for coming with me to get my owl."

"There you are," Avery snarled. Hermione jumped back as he grabbed Draco's arm. "We're going home."

"Bye!" Hermione squeaked. Draco only nodded before he let himself be dragged away by Avery.

It was turning a bit dark and the lamps flared to life automatically. Avery pulled him towards a sparsely walked alleyway before he turned him around to face him. He looked very… ratty, in Draco's opinion. Or was it just because he was getting obsessed with his quest to snatch Peter?

"Think you're mighty clever, don't you?"

"You're spitting in my face." Draco said, pushing his arms away. "I don't like it—and father will know."

"Lucius? I'd say he's lost his touch."

"Say what you want. I've done what I came here to do so… let's go home, shall we?"

"Don't think that you can act however you want just because of your father."

"I'm sorry, alright? Is that what you want to hear? Sorry you tripped over a cauldron."

"I can't stand brats like you, did you know that?" His breath was hot—it smelled like pastry. "I wonder what your father would think of you… giving me the slip to run around with a Weasley."

"He'd be very disappointed. There."

"Sooner or later, you'll learn to respect me." He grasped Draco's hand in an iron grip. "We're going."

Avery was a strange man, he reflected as he ate dinner. A sort of psycho. But he wouldn't need to worry about him starting from tomorrow—he'd be going back to Hogwarts then. He'd need to meet up with Sirius Black sometime after the feast… get his mirror, and really start having a go at Ron's rat. He found it hard to fall asleep that night—his stomach had a million snakes in it all jumping around. It would be a school year like none other.


	15. we at hogwarts now :DD

The ride to the Hogwarts Express felt longer than usual, though Draco chalked that up to being cooped in a carriage with Avery. It was the first time he hadn't been accompanied by his parents. They'd promised to write him many notes over the school year—coded, of course—and his trunk was packed with little mementos from home, though none were openly associated with 'Draco Malfoy'. Now that he was headed off to Hogwarts, his mother had toned down his dress, opting instead for a much more muted pair of robes, small neat boots, a pointed hat with only one jewel embedded near the rim, and a modestly done-up face. He liked these much better—the robes were dark-green in colour, and in some lights, black—but had pushed the limits of how much make-up was allowed in Hogwarts. He didn't want anyone to recognize him, after all. It didn't feel quite right, going to Hogwarts without his broomstick or his owl, but he was sure that he'd manage. After Sirius Black, nothing scared him anymore.

He left Avery at the platform, ignoring his offer to help carry his luggage, and began searching the train for Ron Weasley. His locket calmed his beating heart as he passed by people he recognized—Pansy Parkinson, for one, had shoved past him with a gaggle of other Slytherin girls. Where on earth could Weasley be? He'd tapped on one compartment door after spotting a head of red hair, but it turned out to be Ron's twin brother—Fred Weasley.

"You're looking for Ron?" His eyes bulged with surprise.

"Erm, yes. I can see he's not here though."

"Oi, George!" He called out to his twin, making his way down the train. "That girl's looking for Ron."

"Our Ron?"

"The one and only."

"Since when did he get on with girls like that?"

"Dunno."

"Oh wait… it must be the one he met yesterday."

Draco left them to their gossip and continued walking past the filling compartments. He found his old mates, Crabbe and Goyle, looking like a pair of confused dogs waiting for their master. He resisted the urge to sit with them and carried on until, near the end of the train, he spotted Theodore Nott sitting alone and staring out the window. He would duck in here until the commotion stilled a bit, he decided, and then he could go looking for Weasley once the train started. He opened the compartment door, eliciting a surprised, "Hey," from Theo and made himself at home.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to act like I knew you."

"You aren't," said Draco. "A lot of people make new friends on the train though."

"Oh yeah. Just no common history, is that it?"

Draco nodded. He stared out the door to see if he could spot Weasley coming down the train.

"Close the door, will you?" Theo resumed looking out the window.

"Just a minute."

"Are you looking for someone?"

"No," he snapped. He slid the door shut. "Just thought we could use a little more company."

"Don't bother." Theo shrugged. "Nobody usually sits with me."

"Erm… I see. Say, have you seen my new wand yet?"

"No." He leaned in closer. "Show me."

"Hrm-hm! Look!" Draco pulled out his white wand. "Aspen. It's eleven inches and it has unicorn hair inside it, just like my old one."

"It looks a lot better than your old one."

"Do you really think so?" He swished it through the air. "I'm not sure. It doesn't feel as good…"

"Eh, you'll get used to it." He lurched slightly to his right. There was a loud whistle in the air, and a cloud of white smoke billowed past their view. "I think we're off."

"Finally. It's about time—any later and we'd be late to the feast."

"That's definitely what I missed most about Hogwarts."

"Really, Theo… the food?"

"Don't be a berk. You saw how it was at my house… I'm sick of canned food."

"I can't say it looked very good, yeah."

"The first thing I'm going to eat is a potato. It'll be good to eat something that's not some sort of meat."

"A potato?" Draco scoffed. "You can get those anywhere."

"Not at my house."

"Oh, right."

They sat and watched the platform whizz by their window for a while, watching the scenery turn from rocky hills to scrubby yellow plains that looked more like a giant unkept yard. Draco stole a few glances at the translucent door whenever he could, hoping to spot a bit of red through the warped glass.

"So how's it like?" Upon facing Draco's inquisitive stare, he added, "Bein' a girl, that is."

"I don't know. Terrible, I suppose."

"Do _they_ , er, feel weird?"

"Don't ask me!" He snapped. "Go ask one of your other friends, Tracey or whoever."

"I told you already that she's not really my friend. We're just classmates, that's all." He smirked. "You're not actually wearing a bra, are you?"

"Just—urgh! I don't even want to think about it." He cringed, shaking his head free of imaginary flies. He hadn't been this embarrassed since his mother had bought him a pair. He could hear her voice telling him about the various benefits the… things brought to the table.

"You didn't answer my question." He shrugged. "I guess that's a yes."

"I'm going to switch compartments."

"Don't be embarrassed. It's only natural."

"Oh shut up already."

* * *

There was a knock on the door and Pansy Parkinson interrupted their conversation. She looked almost like she'd been crying and she was thronged by Millicent Bulstrode on one side; Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass on the other. Tracey waved hello to Theo, who ducked his head in an awkward reply.

"Hey, Nott," said Pansy. "Have you seen Draco onboard?"

"Er, no." Theo had a faint smile on his lips. "Why d'you ask?"

"I can't find him anywhere!" Her upper lip trembled. "He usually comes to see me before the trolley lady starts… he's always bought me something from there—since first year, even! It's our little tradition."

"There's a few more compartments we haven't checked," said Bulstrode. "Don't give up yet!"

"Those?" Pansy half-laughed, half-shrieked. "Nott's the last Slytherin we didn't check—why would Draco be with a bunch of Hufflepuffs?"

"Yeah, Malfoy isn't the type to be hanging out with 'Puffs," Davis added. "Maybe he's just late."

"We have to tell the conductor to turn around," Pansy said. "I can already see him—he's probably standing there on the platform, wondering where everyone is! C'mon, Mills. Tracey, Daphne—you lot check the rest… just in case. Help them, Nott!"

With that, she dragged Millicent Bulstrode back up the train. Davis sighed and let herself sit next to Theo. Draco made room for Greengrass.

"Damn pain in the arse," Davis said. She stretched out on the seat. "Ah, this is much better. She's been dragging us all over the bloody train."

"Tracey…" Greengrass shook her head.

"What? Don't tell me you like Malfoy too."

"Oh, you know that I don't. Sit properly, you're bothering Theodore."

"No I'm not!" She kicked her feet up by the door and drove her head into Theo's ribs. He jumped. "But hey, Theo… since when did you get a girlfriend, huh?"

"I'm not his girlfriend!" Draco spluttered.

"Yeah, 'course not. Just met her now…get off me." Theo squirmed away from Davis' touch.

"Oh c'mon. You like it."

"That tickles!"

"Tracey!"

"Oh, keep your hair on." She sat up. "Seriously, Daph. Lighten up. But hey, what's your name?"

"Erm… Carina Avery?"

"I know you," said Greengrass. "Your dad came over a while back. Did you really run away from home?"

"I didn't really run away…"

"What was it like?" Davis' eyes were wide. "Where did you go?"

"I went flying, and the wind blew me into a muggle city… I was lost for a few days before I found the Leaky Cauldron."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

"Tracey, she's a pure-blood! She probably didn't know anything about London, right?"

"Erm, right. It was a bit scary, I suppose." Draco glanced at Theo, silently telling him to help get the girls out of their compartment.

"Ooh… I guess it could be. Hey, Daph, I remember when you didn't even know what a bicycle was."

"At least I know now." Greengrass flushed.

"You sure you didn't forget?"

"It's like a muggle broom with wheels… and you have to put your feet on the… petals, and you run while sitting down. What?"

Davis had burst into a laughing fit.

"Aren't you guys supposed to be looking for Draco?" Theo piped up.

"Forget him," said Davis. "He's a total prat."

"No, Nott's right. We should go."

"C'mon, Daph. He's not even here."

"I'm not doing this for Draco," Greengrass snorted. "Let's just go back to our compartment—we're going to miss the trolley."

"Oh shit!" Davis bolted from the seat. "Right, let's go."

"It was nice to meet you, Avery." Greengrass smoothed out her robes. "I almost took you for a Weasley cousin at first though."

"Yeah, yeah, good to see 'em both. We'll see you lot at the feast." Davis guided Greengrass out the door and shut it behind them. Draco could hear her mumbling about eating a pumpkin pasty.

"There ought to be a lock on these things," Draco whined.

"On the bright side, nobody's really recognized you. I told you they wouldn't!"

"Ah well, bully for you. I still have to live like this."

"I really don't think it's that bad." Theo shrugged. "I wouldn't mind."

"You know, I've noticed that people only say that about things they know nothing about."

"It could be worse. You could be an ugly girl."

His statement held some truth to it. Draco had seen the way people treated Millicent Bulstrode, for instance. It was like she held all the baggage of being a girl without owning any of its perks. In any given conversation, she could be a whiney, emotional bitch and a man wearing a dress simultaneously. Even he had to admit that being pretty was a universal boon… god knew what he would have done if he'd ended up stuck in Millicent's body. Poor old Millicent Bulstrode... but then again, pretty or no, his own situation wasn't something to be happy about either.

* * *

The train rattled on and on and they spoke little until the trolley lady arrived—Draco had fallen asleep by the window. He was woken up by a spare pasty hitting him on the head. Theo had taken the liberty to buy them both a couple of cauldron cakes, chocolate frogs, and a handful of licorice wands.

"I don't like licorice wands." Draco rubbed his eyes. "You take them."

"Alright."

"Why didn't you get anything good?"

"Hey, I asked what you wanted. S'not my fault you were drooling all over the window."

"I wasn't drooling!"

"Then why'd you wipe your mouth?" He bit off the end of one of the wands. "I was going to let it go, but since you've been nothing but rude to me—you pay me half of what this cost."

"I'm not giving you a sickle."

"Then you can't eat. Hey!" He slapped Draco's hand away from the cauldron cakes. "No you don't."

Draco tried putting his attention to the countryside view slipping past their window. Theo chewed obnoxiously in the back, crinkling the empty packages as he ate his way through the stash. It had begun to rain. Water splattered against their window in fat drops, increasing in both size and frequency as time went on.

"I heard your stomach growl."

"I can eat at Hogwarts for free."

"You sure you don't want a cake? Mmm, it smells good—must be freshly baked."

"…I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself. We still have at least an hour until we get there."

That did it. He would pay Theo for a cake to shut him up.

"Here." He pulled out his purse and pelted a galleon at him. It bounced off his chest and onto the floor.

"Ouch!" Despite the pained expression on his face, Theo was smiling. He picked up the coin and put it in his pocket. "You overpaid, you dummy."

"Or I took pity on your begging. It'd be a shame to see a family name like yours dragged amongst the Weasleys. But don't worry—I reckon I have enough gold to buy you out a hundred times."

"Yeah right. I told you Avery's bad with money, didn't I?"

"Well…" He frowned. No witty remarks came to mind. "Whatever. I can afford dropping galleons on little things like this."

"That was really weak. How's the cake?"

"…Good, I suppose."

"Here, you can have a frog too."

"I haven't bought a chocolate frog in months." He shrugged before taking it anyway. "Father already got me all the cards, you see. And you're not exactly buying these for the chocolate."

"It tastes alright to me."

"No, it has a distinctive swampy aftertaste. Oh, and the texture feels all wrong when you let it melt in your mouth." He ripped open the foil and popped the frog into his mouth. "It's very low quality. The trick is to eat it as fast as possible."

"Uh-huh. Who'd you get?"

"Gwen Ellis."

"I think I lost mine. Can I have her then?"

"What?"

"You said that you collected everyone already."

"I'll give her to you," he smirked. "For my galleon, that is."

"Forget it."

"I was joking. Here, take it." He flicked the card over to Theo's side of the compartment. "She looks like a dog, at any rate."

When the sweets had all been eaten, Theo decided it was time to change into his school robes. Draco had already come to the Express prepared… he looked out the window as his friend stripped out of his casual-wear. Hogwarts was close, he could feel it. He hoped that this year's material would be easier than last year's. Schoolwork wasn't a priority now but that didn't mean he wanted to fail. He closed his eyes and let the rumbling of the train lull him back to sleep. He was always tired lately but the naps he took seemed to do nothing for his energy.

* * *

There was a loud screeching noise as the train slowed to a stop. Draco opened his eyes, expecting Hogwarts to be in view but saw nothing but darkness. The rain was a drumroll, battering the windows almost as hard as the wind was. Before he could ask Theo for an explanation, his friend only offered him a blank stare. Then the lamps went out, making the inside of the train as dark as it was outside.

"Are we at Hogwarts?" Draco sat up a little straighter.

"Nah. We would've been able to see the castle by now."

"…So I suppose we've broken down. Great."

"Or maybe we've hit something. There was a jumper last year. I reckon it's something like that again."

"A jumper?" Draco scoffed, though not as loud as he would've done with the lights on. "Who told you that rubbish?"

"One of the sixth years."

"Was he a Slytherin?"

"Nah… Ravenclaw, maybe. And it was a she."

"Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, Theo. You've been taken for a fool."

"Oh, shut up."

There was a slight rattling noise. Draco couldn't tell if it came from ahead or behind. It was the train starting back up again, he supposed. Theo, on the other hand, jumped up in fright and promptly smashed his knees against Draco's forehead.

"OUCH! What the hell!" He pushed back against Theo's skinny legs. "You kicked me in the head, you imbecile."

"Sorry, sorry. But your head isn't exactly soft either—my knees might be broken."

The door slid open.

"We're full," Draco snapped. Or he would have, if it wasn't for the sudden cold. It froze his throat, stopping him from breathing, let alone speaking. He couldn't see who the intruder was in the dark but the presence was decidedly inhuman. It sucked in the air from the room, replacing it with a sharp nothing. His locket began to rattle against his chest—it was like a little golden heartbeat. It beat harder and harder until he was sure that it was burrowing its way into his flesh in an attempt to replace his actual heart and then—a profound feeling of despair wormed its way into his mind. It was like the time he'd first drank the Polyjuice Potion… no, it was much worse than that. It was when he discovered the hair, when he discovered the possibility that it might be permanent. It was the loss of his complete confidence in his father's ability to fix things mixed with the stabbing sensation he felt when he heard his mother cry. It was all these things and more… this feeling encapsulated the word 'despair' far more effectively than any author or poet or artist could hope to put down in their lifetime.

Then it was gone and the door slammed shut. He was faintly aware of someone sobbing in the background. The blockade around his throat was gone and he let out a huge gasp of relief. Draco realized that he was standing up, his knees bent as if preparing to run—his body had remembered its will to live even if he hadn't. The lamps slowly flickered back to life and he lurched backwards into his seat as the train began to move once more. He could hear the neighbouring compartments slowly coming back to life; students were shouting and some had even trailed out into the corridor.

"W-w…what was that?" Draco cleared his throat. "Theo?"

"Is it gone?"

It took him a second to realize that this diminutive, trembling voice came from Theodore Nott. He had wrapped his arms around his knees, which were drawn up to his chest. His eyes were squeezed tight; little tears trickled out the corners and met around his chin before dripping down onto the floor. He was rocking back and forth, his breath hard and heavy—Draco felt uncomfortably like he was the Sirius Black to his earlier self, even though he hadn't caused the thing to appear.

"Y-yes. Yes. It's gone."

"Are you sure?"

Theo was beginning to scare him more than the creature had. It was like a child had taken over his body—he'd even begun to bite at his fingernails.

"Erm, Theo?"

"Go check."

"Alright, I'll go check for you." Draco slid open the door. "You'd better be up when I come back."

* * *

The corridor was run amok with students like himself, all curious to know what'd happened. Their pale faces drained of colour combined with the jerky, stilted step of those recovering from shock combined to remind Draco of a pack of ghouls, or vampires. Nobody seemed to know anything about the attack. He received everything from shrugs to whispered what-if scenarios about Sirius Black to someone on the train playing a prank on them. This last theory came from the Hufflepuff girl next door—it was undoubtedly a dark jinx of sorts, she said. Someone not quite right in the head; it was probably one of the Slytherins—it seemed like something right up their alley. Maybe it'd been Evaline Clarke, goodness knew that girl had a nasty sense of humour. In fact, she was going to march right over to her compartment—did he want to tag along?

"Everyone back inside their compartments," said a hoarse voice coming from an equally hoarse-looking man. Despite his shabby robes, Draco could tell from his demeanor that this man was someone with authority. Perhaps he was a security guard onboard... at any rate, he began herding the masses back into their compartments.

Draco pulled his head back inside and slid the door shut. One look confirmed what he already knew—Theo was still a huddled mess on the floor. He sighed before sitting next to him… he wasn't good at this sort of thing. How did his mother act when he had a skinned knee? She was very loving, that he knew, but he wasn't sure if he could channel that same love for a friend. He rubbed Theo's back in what he felt was a comforting manner; Theo breathed a little slower.

"It was just a practical joke," Draco said. "Some girl named Evaline Clarke. Well, I suppose she's in for a great deal of trouble… oh damn! She's in Slytherin… we're off to a bad start already. But it doesn't matter in the long run, does it? I expect that Dumbledore will play favourites again at the end of the year. It doesn't matter what we do—Potter will win the cup anyway."

"It's really gone?"

"Yes, weren't you listening? It was all just a joke. Here, get up—god, you're heavy! I would've expected you to be lighter than this, what with how skinny you are and all. I don't suppose you could help me? Move your legs."

"I can't."

"Well we can't be sitting here on the floor! It's not like we're muggles; you'll get your robes all dirty. Come on, Theo, move your legs."

With some effort, Draco managed to half-shove, hall-pull him to the seat. He continued rubbing his back in the same circling motion. It seemed to do the trick… at least, Theo had started talking again.

"Look here, Theo. We're almost to Hogwarts—you don't want to be the one who cried over a practical joke, do you? No one else seemed as scared as you were."

"So you weren't scared at all?" His voice was still faint.

"Ah—well, I mean… of course I was scared. But—"

"It wasn't really scary." He stared out the window. "I saw my mother."

"Oh."

"I miss her… y'know, I'd forgotten how she looked. Before she died." There was a tremor in his voice; Draco prayed that he wouldn't cry again. "I-I wish that I did. I don't want to have to think of her like that… I have her pictures at home—I want to see her like that, not like…"

"Just let it out," he said, imitating his mother's croon. "It'll be alright."

As his friend cried on his shoulder, Draco awkwardly attempted to rock him back and forth. This was the second time he'd comforted someone like this—though Sirius Black had been a lot more unstable. It felt nice, in a way, knowing that someone needed him in this manner. It gave him just a little bit of the agency he'd lost since he'd drank the Polyjuice. The train pulling into Hogwarts seemed to calm Theo down. He stood up on shaky legs, seemingly embarrassed over his outburst.

"Sorry 'bout your robes," he said.

"Hm?" Draco realized that his shoulder almost looked drooled on. He made a face. "I didn't even realize. I suppose the house-elves will take care of it… are you alright now?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Good. Let's get out of here." He smiled. "Before another one of those things come knocking."

* * *

Third years rode to Hogwarts in quaint little carriages. Theodore informed him that they weren't pulled by magic but rather skeletal black horses. Clearly, the attack had affected him more than he let on—Draco couldn't see anything. He bit back his doubts and jumped into the nearest stagecoach, making room for Theo to scoot in afterwards. Inside, it smelled of stale rain-water.

"We're almost there. Then you can have your mashed potatoes." Draco said.

Theo mumbled back a half-hearted "great". Draco pat his knee encouragingly.

Just before their carriage took off, two girls hailed them and asked if there was any room left—Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass. Draco was tempted to shut the door in their faces… but he didn't want to draw any more attention to himself.

"God, this thing stinks!" Davis clambered inside before helping Greengrass up. The carriage lurched then set off on its path. "Thanks for letting us crash."

"All the other carriages are full," Greengrass added. Faint traces of blood dotted her chin.

"It's no problem," Draco said.

"Did you guys feel that on the train? That was scary, wasn't it?" In spite of the subject matter, Davis looked excited.

"Oh yes. It was terrifying."

"Ooh, my stomach still feels cold. It hurts a little too."

"That's because you're hungry, Tracey."

She stuck out her tongue at Greengrass.

"Anyway, good thing we met you lot. Pansy's on the warpath. We're refugees, basically."

"Tracey! She's just disappointed…"

"Over Malfoy?" She laughed. "He had his moments… but I won't miss the little git. Oh, hang on."

She wet the sleeve of her robes and wiped off the blood on Greengrass' face as discreetly as she could.

"What did you have against him?" Draco asked.

"He was a complete tosser," she said, ignoring Greengrass as best she could. "He was too, Daphne, don't even deny it! Anyway, I'll never forgive him for stealing my Quidditch position."

"There weren't any tryouts," Theo said suddenly.

"Exactly my point, Theo! So here I am, practising my arse off the past two summers, and the wanker just ups and buys his way onto the team! What sort of rubbish is that? He wasn't even that good—he must've lost the Snitch to Potter a million times… I had to close my eyes near the end of season."

"It's a team game," Draco snapped. "If the chasers had done their job properly, there wouldn't have been a chance for Potter to win, snitch or no snitch."

Theo gave him a look and he instantly felt foolish. There was no way he'd get through a week if he was baited so easily. Luckily for him, Tracey Davis wasn't the questioning type.

"Well yes," she said. "But still! If you saw him fly… and come to think of it, he even had the better broom! Ooh, what a waste of money."

"Draco doesn't seem to be here," Greengrass said. "Maybe they'll hold tryouts this year."

"Oh, he's really not coming this year? I thought Pansy was, well, being herself." She perked up. "I hope you're right. I really want to play on the team this year—I know I'm better than anyone in our year."

"Hang on," said Theo. "Didn't you grow up with the muggles?"

"She's half-blood, Theodore. It's not like she's completely muggle-born."

"Aw, Daph. You know you don't need to defend me."

"There's nothing to defend," she said quietly. "It's not like being muggle-born is bad."

"Mm, that's not what you said first year!"

"Tracey!"

"It's okay, at least you weren't like Malfoy and his lot. Even Pansy can get a little annoying sometimes."

"She doesn't mean it."

"How d'you practise Quidditch anyway?" Theo asked.

"I pretty much lived at Daphne's house." She shrugged. "There's no way I could do it at home—I s'pect I'd get expelled, for letting the muggles see me flying around. It's too bad there aren't any muggle sports at Hogwarts…"

"I reckon there's a club or two somewhere." Theo said.

"That's right!" Greengrass said. "Third year's when we can start signing up. That and Hogsmeade."

"Ooh, I can't wait to see the Shack. Mum would've never signed my form if she knew about it though. She's already a bit worried about me coming back—on account of the Basilisk and all. I've already told her that Harry Potter killed it but she won't listen. 'Oh, Tracey! What if there's another one! You said it was a snake, right? Snakes lay a whole bunch of eggs at once—there could be a dozen more of them slithering around!' Honestly!"

"It wouldn't have hurt you," Draco blurted out. "Basilisks only go after muggle-borns."

"As if that's any better, Avery!" Greengrass blurted out. "You weren't there; you don't know how scary it was! We couldn't walk alone to class for a while, we had to have the teachers escort us. And besides, it attacked Penelope Clearwater and she's a half-blood… and a prefect!"

"Carina's just a bit thick, that's all." Theo said urgently. "I learned that on the train—took me an hour to get her to remember my name. She's been hit one too many times on the head, I think."

"Haha… yeah, I don't know what I was thinking. I'm sorry." Why couldn't he keep his emotions in check? Slytherin was the house of cunning… cunning, smooth, calculated, Draco told himself.

"So, is this your first year? Are you a transfer student or something? I've never seen you before." Davis said.

"Erm, yes. I won't really be in the dormitories though—I'm sick, so I need to be near, uh, Professor Snape."

Theo's eyes flashed a warning—too much information, just shut up and nod along.

"Really? You don't look that sick to me."

"It's… something on the insi—"

"Tracey, stop." Greengrass hissed, barely audible over the carriage wheels. "It's alright. I know how it feels… being sick all the time."

"Daph?"

"I don't mind if Avery knows." She smiled tightly.

"Sick people stick together, huh?"

"So," Draco said. He wanted to move the conversation away from himself and back onto the girls, so that they could drone on until they reached Hogwarts. "What clubs are there at Hogwarts?"

"A whole bunch," Theo said. "All pretty useless though."

"There's the Pureblood Witches' Society." Greengrass piped up. "I might join that…"

"Daph. Girl. You're leaving me?"

"It's not just for purebloods. You can join if you're a muggle-born too… the name's just a holdover from its founding days."

"Can I join too?"

"Sorry, Theodore. It's for witches only. I know that there's a gentlemen's version of it though."

"I was kidding." He grimaced. "It sounds boring anyway."

"There's a flying club," Greengrass continued. "And a chess club. Gobstones too. The school paper's always been there—oh, there's too much to say right now… they'll have a list pinned up."

"Hm… I might look into that flying club," said Davis.

"Don't bother. It's for Quidditch rejects." Theo stretched out his legs; Draco noticed now how much taller he was getting. A flicker of jealously passed through his mind. He let the three of them talk about the various stereotypes associated with each club as their carriage trundled into Hogwarts. The rugged stone walls loomed ominously above them as they were carted into the castle's great stone mouth. A warm light shone from within, revealing the house-elves' hard work in keeping the castle as homely as possible—a hard task for a school which held students from all over the country, some even from overseas.

* * *

Students bustled about in a giant stream leading to the Great Hall. The bright light of the lamps had seemingly washed away their experiences on the train, for you could scarcely hear yourself over their excited chattering. Along with the light, there was a delicious smell wafting from the hall. Draco's stomach growled eagerly—it'd long forgotten the taste of the cauldron cakes—but before he could step one foot into the feast, he was yanked aside by Professor Snape.

"My office, Avery." There was a faint glimmer in his eyes. So he found it amusing, did he?

"But… the feast?"

"If you don't dawdle, you may still be able to attend in time for the pudding."

He stomped all the way down to the dungeons, his boots making little clicky-clacks against the stone floors. It wasn't fair. It was like the very walls were leeching away at his happiness the further he got from the light. Professor Snape wasn't far behind; his footsteps were silent in comparison, as if he were gliding across the ground. He waited for Professor Snape to open the door to his office then stepped inside and took a seat on a wooden chair.

"I feel fine," Draco said. "May I go to the feast now?"

"Silence." Snape began rummaging through his luggage. "I would have never expected Avery to get roped into this ridiculous charade."

"My father could buy out the Minister if he wanted to." Draco sneered. "Avery told me it took very little to win him over."

"Could he? It's curious then, why he spends so much time on his little bribes, if he could just buy out Cornelius Fudge," he snapped his fingers, "like that."

"You wouldn't understand. You're just a teacher, after all."

"I may be helping your father with this personal request but I am still your professor and as such, you will show me the proper respect that befitting my station!"

"Yes, sir." He made sure to load as much petulance in his voice as possible.

"Come, Draco… or is it Carina now?" He held a dark vial in his hands. "Drink."

"Erm… is that a cure? Sir?"

"It is merely an experimental potion. Don't fear, I've tested it on live subjects… now, drink."

He brought the vial up to his lips. It smelled like firewhiskey with a hint of freshly cut grass. It tasted about as good as it smelt—that is to say, not very well. At least this didn't burn on its way down, no, it was more of a sticky, almost thickening sensation.

"Now stay put and wait here." Snape began walking out the door. On a whim, he summoned a bowl of soup along with some freshly baked bread, cream, and butter. A flagon appeared holding crystal-clear water. There was no cup.

"I don't get to go to the feast?"

"The food here is as good as," he replied irritably. "Eat, drink, and wait for my return."

There was click as the door shut closed; Draco suspected that he'd locked the door behind him. There was nothing else to do… he ripped off a hunk of bread, dipped it into the soup, and began to eat his fill.

* * *

He grew tired of the taste of bread before he felt full. He wished that Professor Snape had had the foresight to summon him a whole course of foods, not just this simple fare. He was a teacher, after all—it wasn't like he couldn't do it! No, something was on his teacher's mind… perhaps he too, was preoccupied with Sirius Black's escape? Draco supposed that the teachers would have spent the entire break fortifying the castle against Black… after last year's incident with the Basilisk, he was certain that Dumbledore wouldn't want another scandal on his hands. There had been an incident every year he'd been to Hogwarts, after all. How much more could the public opinion take before opting to send their children to Beauxbatons, or Durmstrang, or even overseas to schools like Ilvermorny?

Then he thought about his promise made with Sirius Black. If he pulled up his sleeves, he could still see the faint traces of the Unbreakable Vow. He'd need to make sure that no teachers ever saw the marks. But how would he meet Sirius Black tonight? He was fairly certain he remembered him instructing him to meet him by the gamekeeper's shack. Otherwise, Black had promised to break in and shove the mirror down his throat. He gulped. He didn't fancy witnessing another one of the madman's breakdowns. Perhaps, if he was fast enough, he could sneak out the dungeon right now and come back before Professor Snape came in?

"You've managed to stay put." Snape looked a bit worse for the wear as he re-entered the office. "Lift your head."

"I don't suppose my eyes have gone back to normal, have they? Sir?"

"…No."

If Draco didn't know Professor Snape as he did, he would have sworn there was a flash of distant pain in his eyes.

"So they're still green?"

"Along with your ginger hair, yes. What on earth are you doing?"

"Just checking, professor. Yes, nothing's changed. That's a shame."

"Don't let me catch you doing that again. Otherwise, you'll force me to write to your mother." He shook his head, pulled out a folded paper from his robes, and gave it to Draco. "Here is your timetable. I expect you to be punctual, even if you aren't staying in the dormitories. If you're late to Potions even once, I shall take the matter up with the Headmaster, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me be clear. Dumbledore has only agreed with your accommodations so long as you remain a model student. No fighting, no stealing, no bullying, and no lolly-gagging. You are not to break any more rules during your stay at Hogwarts. He has instructed me to show you no lenience in these matters—no, not even if you are in my house."

"I understand, sir."

"Come. I'll show you to your room."

* * *

The room next door was a cramped thing, full of broken cauldrons hastily shoved aside and stray potion ingredients. There was a small cot in the back corner. Draco's luggage had already been brought down. The bright side was the little bathroom that was joined to the room… it even had a small shower, just for himself. And these mirrors were perfectly amiable, nothing like the ones he'd used at Grimmauld Place or his manor. But all good things came at a cost—his room was joined with Professor Snape's office through a door in the side.

"This used to be a storage room," Snape explained. "Now it shall be yours. If you take ill during the night, simply knock on the door three times, like so, and I will come to your aid. I do hope that you will disturb me only for the most important matters—I hardly have the time to attend to a hangnail, for instance. I trust you will use your better judgement, or at least, what remains of it."

"I'll never knock on that door."

"All the better. I am not your caretaker, nor your father. I have taken time out of my schedule to work on a cure for you only at your father's insistence."

"I thought you said there wasn't a cure! Didn't you give up last year?"

"New potions are always being invented. I would have thought you to be a little more grateful," he snapped. "Now! As you know, the murderer Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban. As a safety precaution, the ministry has placed Dementors around each and every school entrance. I believe you have already encountered these foul beings?"

"T-the thing on the train?"

"Precisely. I must warn you that they do not take lightly to rule-breakers. There will be no sneaking out of the castle, not unless you have a death wish… although, they do speak of the Dementor's Kiss to be a fate worse than death. If you have no more questions…"

"No… no, I don't. Erm, good nigh—"

But Professor Snape had already turned back through the door connecting his room to the office. It slammed shut behind him and Draco was left alone in the dark. Of course, there were a few candles flickering back and forth but it was still a very dismal place. He was beginning to feel like a piece of inventory himself, locked in amongst all the other broken things.

He changed into his pajamas in the bathroom. Even though he didn't suspect Professor Snape to be a pervert or anything, he didn't feel comfortable at the thought of being separated by only one flimsy door. It wasn't even made of metal—he could see the office's lights on through the gaps of the wood. There was a bit of blood on his golden locket, the one he'd forgotten to sell at Diagon Alley. Somehow during the train ride, or the carriages, it had dug into his flesh enough to make him bleed. A series of ugly looking scrapes lay between his breasts. In the dim light, it looked like a disease. He washed the locket off, pat it dry, and shoved it deep into his trunk. It would be safe there until he could visit Hogsmeade—then he'd sell it.

As he settled in for the night, one thought occupied his mind. How on earth was he going to contact Sirius Black?


End file.
